


Middlesex

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23773000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: When Exeter challenges Middlesex’s supremacy, Ealdorman McCall and his men must react promptly. Lord George, one of the lower nobles at the court but husband of the ealdorman’s right-hand man, suddenly is given a role of great importance.The fate of Middlesex lies in his hands.
Relationships: Elliot Daly/Jamie George, Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 52
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

It was early morning. The sun was beginning its steady crawl across the sky, beams pushing into every dark and hidden corner. The first rays slid into George’s rooms, bright enough to wake any man – but he was already up and working.

The regulation of the Middle Saxon harvest documentation procedure was hardly the most pressing of matters, but Ealdorman McCall had requested it to be completed before the week was out. George knew that it was likely busywork to keep one of the lower lords of the court occupied while the important nobles went about their business of monitoring developments with Exeter and negotiating treaties and the like (all requiring copious amounts of feasting, to which he would occasionally be invited, out of the goodness of his husband’s heart).

Speak of the devil-

“Good morning, dear,” Lord Owen, scion of the powerful northern families Farrell and O’Loughlin, the ealdorman’s right-hand man, said with a distracted smile. “How did you sleep?”  
“Well, thank you,” he answered politely, moving his papers to one side so Owen could perch on the desk. George knew his place here well enough.

Owen thumbed through them with interest, setting aside his own bundle of letters for the moment. “Counting yields at the point of harvest? Very innovative of you. But how do you know-”  
George bit down a groan. “That the peasants have sufficient literacy? I was planning on appealing to the local monasteries for their skills.” He wasn’t an imbecile, he knew that, but sometimes it was hard to remember in the face of virtually the entire court’s babying.

His husband – _lord and master_ , some unfortunate voice in his head supplied – was on the verge of replying when a clattering of hooves shattered the comfortable morning clucking of chickens and lowing of cows. They both instinctively looked out into the courtyard. A messenger was sliding off his horse, hooking the reins around a post, and running into the main part of the complex of buildings.

“Poor beast doesn’t look in much danger of making an escape,” Owen noted, leaning forward. “One of our messengers, though, and at this time of day – it can’t be good news. I wonder what it concerns.” George stayed quiet. It wasn’t much use him wondering; he would be informed in due course, like a small child cut off from all sources of information but his parents.

Owen stood up, scooping up his papers in a careless grip. “I should go – I imagine McCall will be sending for me soon. Will I see you for lunch?”  
“I believe so,” George said, arranging his face into a suitably enthused expression.  
“Then I look forward to it. Enjoy the harvest records, darling.” With that, Owen swept out.

George, alone in his room once more, held his head in his hands. It had been the same routine practically every day for the last two years he had spent at the Middle Saxon court, following his marriage to Owen. He would wake to an empty bed, be graced with his husband’s presence a handful of times (if he was lucky), ride through the surrounding forests for some light entertainment, eat at the lower end of the table among the knights and merchants, and pass a lonely evening in his bedchamber before Owen came to bed.

He considered his rooms, stretching out his back. There were worse places to be, he could concede – he’d been handed around enough courts as a teenager to know that this was one of the better possible outcomes. Middlesex was the largest individual region of England – save perhaps for Exeter – and it showed in the construction of its court.

The walls of each building were thick stone and the thatched roofs were replaced more frequently than at any settlement George had spent time at; the central courtyard around which most of the buildings were built was swept clean, although sometimes the chickens escaped their pen and ran loose. He always liked watching the household staff gather them up again – a few resilient hens would evade capture for the best part of half an hour, leaving their pursuers red-faced and panting.

Shaking himself out of the stupor, George returned his gaze to the scratchings of his pen on the paper. Largely pointless it may be, but the ealdorman still expected it to be completed. The higher nobles didn’t need further reason to exclude him.

He laboured his way through calculations until the sun had reached its peak. Sometimes a servant would bring him a meal in his rooms, or there would be no such delivery and his presence would be awaited in the main hall. Today appeared to be the latter. He straightened his jacket (it was early May, no need for a heavier coat), brushed a few patches of mud from his boots, and set off.

He hesitated outside the hall for a few moments, trying to distinguish the voices within. Ealdorman McCall and Owen were easy to discern, although the southern accents blurred together. Swiping at his hair once more for luck, he stepped inside.

McCall was seated at the head of the long table, as was custom, with Owen to his right. On the left were the lords Jamie and Elliot, and two merchants he recognised as the Vunipolas, Mako and Billy. Facing them at the lower end of the table sat two knights: Sir Jonny, a capable if serious warrior, and Sir Ben. George let out a sigh of relief at the sight of his old friend – they had virtually grown up together at the Midlands court. At least he would have one ally here.

He scanned the table once more. The sole empty chair was next to Owen. That couldn’t be right. He never sat that close to the important men. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be here and the servant was merely late with his midday meal. Chairs for nine people around a table – he could think of a dozen others who would be worthy of a place at the table before him.

 _Oh Lord_ , he prayed, starting to back out of the room with flaming cheeks, _forgive me my folly; forgive my hubris. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

A hand on his arm shook him from his penitence. “George,” Owen murmured, looking at him intensely. “Come and sit down. We had not yet started; do not worry.”  
George stared blankly back at him, panic welling in his stomach and threatening to spill from his eyes. “I-”  
“Sit,” Owen repeated, pulling him to the table. “The ealdorman will explain why you are here,” he said under his breath as he took his own seat.

George bent his head to study the table. He could not bear to see the disapproval on the faces of the other men. It was no matter. They would soon come to their senses and send him back to the comfortable isolation of his quarters.

McCall coughed, drawing the attention of every man along the table. “Good afternoon, my lords,” he nodded at George, who could barely maintain eye contact, “my knights, and my mercantile advisors.” The Vunipola brothers inclined their heads at the last greeting.

He sat back in his chair. “Now, as you are most likely aware, there have recently been disturbances in the territories controlled by Exeter; unsettling news of attacks on the clergy and theft of livestock comes almost daily, with Ealdorman Baxter doing little to quash the violence.” He pursed his lips and George repressed a shudder at the venom in his words. The other men did not seem to be surprised at this information. If they all had prior knowledge of the attacks – why was he here?

“But today, we received a report to top them all. A few hours ago, the trusty messenger Adam told Lord Owen and me of troop musters being conducted by Exeter. He saw it with his own eyes.” George dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand to stop any noise of shock. Somewhat reassuringly, he saw the same fear he felt written across the face of Lord Elliot, although their respective husbands appeared emotionless. The knights seemed intrigued; the Vunipolas, unmoved.

“This is the first undeniable evidence of Exeter’s intent to fight. Given the location of their musters and all other knowledge we have gained – it is almost entirely certain that we, Middlesex, are the eventual target.”

George’s throat filled with bile. Exeter – _Middlesex_ –

He may not have had the most fulfilling time at the court, but it was still home. He felt his husband knock their knees together under the table and was oddly comforted.

“In essence, this is a war council,” McCall continued. “I have chosen each of you to carry out a specific role. Lord Owen – you will coordinate the efforts of every man in this room. Lord Jamie – begin sending out messengers to the leaders of each village; we need to know what we are working with. Lord Elliot shall assume the duties of Lord Jamie for the duration.”

George zoned out as McCall worked his way around the table. If Elliot was taking on his husband’s usual role, then he himself would at least remain at court. It would be a fitting assignment for him; out of the way as usual.

“Lastly, Lord George,” McCall said, fixing him with a piercing gaze. “Lord Owen has informed me of your time spent near Exeter. You will consider potential allies in the area and report back to the council tomorrow morning.”

George nodded, lowering his eyes respectfully. He must have missed who had been assigned Owen’s job. Of course, it was too much to expect of the second-choice husband, to take on the responsibilities of the ealdorman’s second-in-command. Instead, he would be making a list of nobility at the court of Bath. He couldn’t say the change from harvests and complicated sums was unwelcome.

The ealdorman kept talking for a while longer while George tried to steady his breathing. He’d spent so long being handed around between courts – fleeing the instability of the Midlands for Bath, and ultimately being forced to return – that he thought Middlesex, one of the two most powerful kingdoms in the land, would be safe for him. But now Exeter was challenging their supremacy, and King Edward was not intervening.

All he had to do was remember his friends at Bath, write their names in a list, and read it out to the meeting tomorrow. Not much – not enough.

The sounds of chairs scraping on the floor startled him from his thoughts. “May I ride with you this afternoon?” Owen asked, catching his arm as he turned to leave. “I would like to discuss these – developments further.”  
George nodded, closing his hand around his husband’s wrist for the briefest of seconds before pulling away as Owen would wish. “Of course. I will be in my room.” Owen smiled at him in thanks and walked back to their ealdorman’s side.

He wandered back to his room, only realising how his stomach was growling in hunger when he saw the lunch that had been left on the small table by the bed. He carefully ate his way through the broth of assorted vegetables. _This is why harvests are important_ , he reminded himself.

But, compared to the threat of imminent invasion by Exeter – harvests could wait a day or two. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him and began to compile the list.

After a while mulling over the relative merits of each of his friends in Bath, he set aside the list and left the room. He didn’t know when Owen would be ready for their afternoon ride, but it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

He crossed the courtyard with a smile to the cooks bustling in and out of the kitchens, and walked around the main hall until he reached the stables. It was always a place of comfort and solace for him. During the upheaval of Ealdorman Cockerill’s deposition in the Midlands, he would hide away in the yard with the horses until Sir Ben came to find him. The steady warmth and solidness of the horses, even the stench of manure: it was more of a home than the rest of the Middle Saxon court could ever be.

“My lord,” one of the stablehands said, bowing nervously, “how can I help you?”  
George smiled tightly at him. _Leave me alone_ wasn’t the kindest advice he could give the younger man. “Saddle Lord Owen’s horse for me, please.” The boy bowed again and rushed off.

George rolled his shoulders, easing the tension from them, and slipped into his horse’s stall. “Hello, pretty,” he murmured, running his hands down Alban’s flank. “We’ll be going for a ride with Owen and Aaron today. Makes a change, hmm?” The bay horse huffed, blowing straw over his master’s shirt. Shaking his head fondly, George brushed himself off and went to find Alban’s tack.

The horse had been Owen’s present to him at their wedding and was probably his most reliable companion. Alban was on the smaller side – even George could acknowledge it was the right decision, once he’d recovered from the embarrassment – but could outpace the knights on their heavier horses easily. His saddle too, George reflected as he carried it back across the yard to the stable, was of a high quality he had not enjoyed before. Even the saddlecloth with its blue, black, and white stripes seemed reminiscent of the Bath crest. It was more thought than Owen appeared to have put into their relationship since the marriage.

Heaving the saddle across the stable door, he quickly removed the stones from his horse’s hooves and brushed across his coat. It wasn’t necessary – the Middlesex grooms were thorough – but he relished the physical closeness he could have with Alban. Having set down the brush, George slung the saddlecloth over the horse’s back, followed by the saddle. He tightened the girth slowly, careful not to hurt his friend. Finally, he slid the bridle over Alban’s head, pressing a kiss to his forehead when it was secured in place. The process was calming; a shelter in the storm.

“Anything else, my lord?” The boy was in George’s face as soon as he’d let himself out of the stable.  
“Is Aaron ready?” he sighed, not bothering to look at Owen’s horse. The groom would tell him soon enough.  
“Of course, my lord. He looks well.”  
“That will be all, thank you.” George dismissed him with a flick of his hand, cringing inside at the callousness of the gesture but – some servants were too much to handle, especially at times like these.

He had barely begun wondering what to do while he waited for Owen (he was used to it by now, although there was something mildly entertaining in thinking up new methods), when the man himself strode into the yard. Without really knowing why, George tensed. His husband had been nothing but courteous to him and everyone else – the ease with which he dispensed of the overeager stable boy stood testament to that – but still, he could not bring himself to relax fully around him. Even his own parents had a more loving relationship than he and Owen.

“Good afternoon, love,” Owen said, kissing his cheek lightly. “I see the horses are ready – shall we go?” George nodded, mute, and unlatched Alban’s stable door. He led the horse out into the yard and swung up into the saddle with the ease of years of practice. Owen led them through the courtyard on his big black horse. George was content to follow, as usual.

Once they were out on the open road leading to the nearby forest, Owen pulled Aaron back into line with Alban so they could talk side by side. George looked up at him with a bemused smile.

“How are you?” Owen asked, eyes kind.  
George almost frowned before remembering his manners. He was not a child. “Well, thank you. I have completed the ealdorman’s task; it was not the most complex, but I am sure he has a good reason for it.”  
Owen nodded. “I don’t know how much I can tell you – oh, it will come out eventually anyway.” George unconsciously moved Alban so he could be closer to his husband. Was this – _trust?_

“McCall has been aware of Exeter’s intentions for several years now; almost since Middlesex became the dominant region about seven years ago.” George bit his lip. He didn’t need a sermon on the power politics of factional struggle. Given his place in Bath at the time, he had been in the middle of the developing rivalry.

“I suppose that’s by the by now, though.” Owen appeared to realise his mistake as they rode through the first trees at the edge of the forest. It was a bright afternoon, but the shadows would soon thicken as the trees became more dense. “The problem with the timing of Exeter’s attack, which will presumably be in the coming weeks, is our lack of preparedness. We have not been on such unstable financial footing in an age. They somehow must have found out about the extravagance of our hosting of King Edward.”

George ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch. The other man was right. When the king had visited with his court before Christmas, McCall had spared no expense to demonstrate his loyalty and, more importantly, the territory’s wealth. Rumours of the luxurious feasting had likely been encouraged by the ealdorman, but any suggestion of the court’s subsequent financial difficulties could only have emerged through malicious intent.

Owen sighed, brushing aside some more branches. “It’s most likely a coincidence. Besides that – if Exeter are readying for war now, we have little chance of raising an army in time, let alone affording it.” His husband looked so despondent that George reached out a hand, squeezing his forearm with a gentle smile. “Thank you, love. I just-” He groaned. “It couldn’t have been worse timing. The local rulers will obey Exeter because they have a dangerous force, Baxter and his cronies will gain support, and we will still be trying to coax the peasants away from their fields.” Owen’s expression was bleak. “I don’t see how we can escape from this, dear. I don’t know what to do.”

George reined in Alban, twisting in the saddle to face his husband. “All will be well,” he said softly. “Middlesex is more than you alone, and such an army will take several weeks to march from Exeter.” He stood up in his stirrups to wrap an arm around Owen’s slumped shoulders. “I believe in you, and in providence. All will be well,” he repeated, pressing his cheek to his husband’s side before retreating to a more conventional distance.

“Thank you, my love,” Owen said thickly, kissing the top of George’s head. “We shall work together and, by the grace of God, we will pass through this test to happier times.” Silence fell and, not knowing what else to say, George clucked to Alban to walk on.

They ambled through the forest in a long loop, bird calls and the horses’ hooves on the soft leaves the only sounds. As they emerged back onto the road, Owen looked across at George with a grin. “Fancy a race back to the stables?”  
George couldn’t stop himself. “You’re on.”  
“I’ll see you at dinner, then?” Owen said with a smirk, kicking Aaron into a gallop and leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

George growled and sent Alban chasing after the bigger horse. Slowly, inevitably, they reeled Owen back in, both men pulling their horses to a halt at the same time outside the gate to the stables. “Good effort,” Owen panted, looking at the little horse appraisingly.  
“Not bad yourself,” George replied, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “It’s a shame we never need to go that fast.”  
His husband shrugged, sliding off his horse and handing the reins to the same enthusiastic groom. “You don’t know when it might be useful, love. Anyway – I should meet with McCall. Thank you for allowing me to accompany you.”

With a pat of Alban’s neck, Owen was gone again, sweeping out like a whirlwind. It had been nice while it lasted, George thought, to pretend his husband cared, even slightly. He led the horses back to the stables, declining the boy’s offer of help, and untacked them slowly. If even Owen thought the Exeter threat was dangerous – he would need to cling on to these small moments of normality even more tightly.

That evening, after another promised dinner in a line of hundreds Owen had missed, George was preparing for bed by the light of a small fire when the door opened. “I’m sorry about earlier,” Owen said, closing the door behind him. “McCall was on a roll – you know how he is.” George smiled politely and continued to change into his sleeping clothes.

Once Owen had finished stacking his papers on George’s desk and put up the guard around the fire, he slipped into bed alongside his husband. “Sleep well, dear,” he murmured. “I have a feeling we’re going to need all the strength we have, soon enough.”

George brushed their feet together under the covers, more contact than he would usually dare to initiate. With the threat of invasion hanging over them – perhaps Owen would be more willing to reciprocate than he often was. “You too,” George replied, smiling and closing his eyes as Owen rested his hand over George’s for a brief moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out firmly situated in tenth-century Anglo-Saxon England (hence the ealdormen) but there was only so much research I could bring myself to do so it’s more generic medieval now. Also - this is probably peak escapism, so I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

The war council the next morning was tense, as befitted the situation. George delivered his assessment of the Bath nobility; Lord Jamie reported that the first messengers to the surrounding villages were expected to return within the hour. McCall seemed satisfied, although Owen’s white knuckles under the table – where only George could see them – told a different story.

“If you would permit us, my lord, to inform you of the financial situation…” Billy, the younger Vunipola brother, said with a sickly smile. The ealdorman nodded shortly. “As a result of the – how can I put it – _overzealous_ spending of the court in preparation for the visit of the king, my brother and I believe it would be right to levy new taxes to fund this army. The men must have weapons, if not armour, and the court’s reserves will not stretch to that at present.”

“But surely that will take weeks?” Jamie asked, looking around the table. “We don’t have that kind of time.”  
“Unfortunately, we cannot see any alternative, my lord. It is better to have a fully-equipped army than committing some unprepared peasants to a fight they will lose and then losing the harvest as well.”

George bit his lip. He could understand the Vunipolas’ reasoning, but the all-or-nothing explanation behind it did not seem to be in the best interests of Middlesex. Besides, he had been studying the harvest in detail and, with a bit more efficiency, there was no reason why the womenfolk could not bring in the crops while the men were defending their homes.

Sensing the growing animosity in the glares between Jamie and Billy, McCall stood up. “Thank you for your input, Billy. As the situation develops, we may have to make these difficult decisions but, for now, we can deliberate a while longer.” His words seemed to remind the men of their commitment to propriety.

“Furthermore,” the ealdorman continued, taking his seat, “Lord Owen and I have discussed a perhaps more daring solution – or what could at least be described as a means of achieving a delay while we go about raising an army. Owen?” He inclined his head towards his right-hand man.

“Thank you, my lord.” He bowed slightly as he got up. “Firstly, I would like to remind you all that this is merely a suggestion, albeit one that has the full backing of both the ealdorman and myself.” He took a breath, composing himself. “We propose a diplomatic mission to Bath, to gain the support of that court in the fight against Exeter. As our ally, they could act as a buffer, thus delaying the attack on our own lands and giving us time to ready our troops.”

“That’s all well and good,” Elliot said, tapping at the table, “but who are you sending? I can’t think of anyone with adequate connections to Bath.” Jamie nodded his agreement, while the Vunipolas were muttering to each other.

Owen ducked his head, avoiding their gazes. “I was thinking of Lord George.”

The immediate flush of his cheeks was mirrored on the face of the man in question. _Him?_ He could concede that he had spent the best part of three years at the court and maintained friendly relations with the ealdorman and some of the lords, but it was always on a more social basis, not – not _negotiating a military alliance_ , Christ.

The other lords seemed to be having similar doubts. “Not meaning to offend your husband, but what experience does he have with diplomacy?” Jamie asked, furrowing his brow. “Surely Elliot would be better suited – he did organise that exchange of surplus food with the Midlands last year.” Lord Elliot flashed him a smile, and George was sure they were holding hands under the table.

Owen sighed. George clenched his jaw, hated having to see his husband defending him and his uselessness in front of the most important nobles in Middlesex. “Lord George, as I am sure you are aware, spent his formative years in the Midlands, not merely orchestrating trade relations but surviving the turmoil there when not many did.” Elliot looked down at the table and George felt a warm satisfaction in his chest.

“What is more, he also spent several years in Bath and played an instrumental role in the elevation of the current ealdorman to that position.” George squirmed. His husband was definitely overstating his efforts there, but it was nice to feel worthy of defending for once. “It is for this reason that Ealdorman McCall and I recommend Lord George to carry out this mission which is at present – if I may remind you – entirely hypothetical.” Looking sternly at the two lords opposite, he sat down.

McCall had opened his mouth to speak when Sir Ben jumped in. “If I may, my lord?” The ealdorman waved his consent. “As someone who accompanied Lord George throughout each of the situations Lord Owen mentions – my lord manoeuvred through every difficulty with aplomb, and retains the goodwill of the vast majority of those he came into contact with. If he is to undertake this mission, I volunteer to accompany him.”  
“I too,” Sir Jonny said, adding his voice. “It would be an honour.”

If George kept chewing at his lip under the force of the compliments, it would likely split, he knew. He settled for scratching rough lines along his arms under the loose sleeves of his shirt. After so many months of feeling like the odd one out at court, it was uncomfortable suddenly being the centre of apparently deserved attention.

He dragged his eyes up from his lap to see McCall smiling at him, reassuring and fatherly. “As you can see, gentlemen, Lord George has the necessary credentials and – more importantly – the support for this enterprise. However, it is, for the moment, merely one idea among many.” Owen pressed their legs together under the table and George was comforted as McCall moved on to each man’s task for the next day.

The warm glow of support did not last for long. In the late afternoon, George was walking past the main hall after his customary ride with Alban when he heard voices emanating from inside. Owen’s northern tones were easily distinguished, and when he peered through a gap in the wood he saw Jamie and Elliot standing opposite him. He didn’t know if he wanted to listen, but then he heard what they were talking about and couldn’t leave.

“I just don’t understand how you can trust him,” Jamie was saying, doubt thick in his voice. “Yes, he’s been at all these courts, but that means he could have an allegiance to any one of them instead of Middlesex.”  
“Exactly,” Elliot continued. “And him returning to the Midlands after Bath – I’ve been there, and I don’t know why anyone would go back; it’s a mess. I can’t see a legitimate reason for it.”

“And even setting that aside,” Jamie added, “how do you know that these people really respect him? I reckon it’s more pity and sympathy: that’s how he’s staying fed and watered here, after all.”

George put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He wanted to throw up. How could Owen, after singing his praises just a few hours earlier, stand for this character assassination of his own husband now?

Elliot chimed in again. “If he just turns up in Bath, they might take him in for a few days out of the goodness of their hearts, but I can’t imagine them mobilising their armies for him. He’s not inspiring enough for that.”  
“I don’t think I’ve heard him say more than ten words together in all the time he’s been here,” Jamie mused. “Are you sure?”

George held his breath, hoping and praying that Owen would defend him.

“When you put it like that…” he said slowly. “Don’t worry, though – as we said in the meeting, it’s a last-ditch idea. We wouldn’t risk it otherwise.”

George felt cold. All those words before had been a mistake, a farce to make the others consider the mission, and no more. Even his own husband thought he was useless. He stumbled away, not wanting to hear anything else about his shortcomings.

Somehow he made it back to his rooms, bolting the door behind him and collapsing onto the bed. A bitter taste crept into his mouth. He knew he didn’t bring much to the court or to the marriage, he would be the first to admit that, but having it laid out so clearly like that…

He curled in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest. When he and Owen were first getting to know each other, it was clear to everyone that the Farrells were targeting Joe for the marriage as the respectable older son. It would be a valuable alliance between the lower branch of a powerful northern family with Irish links, and the eldest son of the head of the family. But George’s father had decided that the Farrell offer was not good enough for Joe, and thus Owen had been burdened with the second son _‘til death do us part_.

The fake smile plastered to his husband’s face during the marriage ceremony had been perhaps the most painful part. He’d vowed then, secretly and between himself and God, not the amassed congregation, that he would try to earn Owen’s respect, if not his love.

And what had he done since then? Leeched off the Middlesex court and carried out the most meaningless tasks the ealdorman saw fit to assign to him. Hardly a husband to be proud of, let alone defend with such commitment as in the war council.

But this mission was his chance. He could prove his ability and his loyalty to Middlesex; to Owen, to McCall, to Jamie and to Elliot, and to everybody else who had ever doubted him. He would be the second son, the second choice no longer. He would show why the knights had been right to place their trust in him.

Hauling himself off the bed, he moved to the basin and poured some water into it. With shaking hands, he washed away the tears and the bitterness. He had most likely a few days to gather the courage to travel to Bath and gain their support – if it happened at all. Beyond the growing threat to Middlesex, this could be his fresh start, a rebirth of sorts.

He dried his face, patted it clean. The tears were gone, not yet replaced by courage. But he would have time to compose himself before riding to the defence of the kingdom.

He turned, eyes catching on the mess of harvest figures piled up on the corner of the desk. A day ago, all his focus had been consumed by that relatively insignificant fact. Now, he was facing a potentially life or death situation – for him and all Middlesex. This was not a time for doubt. He would show the other lords just what he was made of.

Upper lip suitably stiffened, he closed his eyes and imagined the route he would take to Bath. The old Roman road and then the banks of the River Avon would be easiest to follow, not to mention quickest and good for the horses. As to where he would sleep – houses along the road were probably too conspicuous given the nature of the mission, so it would be a matter of lying on his cloak and hoping for the good weather to hold.

The evening and the morning passed in the same haze of anxious anticipation. George fell asleep with excited nerves bouncing around his stomach and woke up to muscles aching from being tensed all night. Even his jaw was tight and he had to massage it before eating breakfast – alone, as usual.

The war council that morning was proceeding along the established lines when someone knocked at the door of the hall. Lord Jamie paused in his report of the villages’ readiness for battle and flicked his eyes to McCall for guidance. “Come in,” the ealdorman called, gesturing for Jamie to sit.

A messenger tumbled into the room, looking at the assembled nobility with wide eyes before collecting himself. “Ealdorman, my lords, knights,” he wheezed, standing up straight and assuming an air of authority despite his dusty clothing. “I bring an urgent report on the activities of Exeter.”

George shuddered. It could not be good news, and he could see the same apprehension mirrored on the faces of the other men.

“Go on,” McCall said, hands gripping the edge of the table.  
“The monastery at Axminster has been sacked by troops professing loyalty to Exeter, my lords. They are ready for war, clear as day – and moving east with every passing hour.”

George fought back a gasp, reaching instinctively for Owen’s hand and realising his husband was doing the same. The earlier ill feeling in his gut was back with a vengeance. Axminster – that meant they were halfway to Bath already. Although, if that was merely an advance party, and the bulk of the force were following on foot and carrying weaponry…

Ealdorman McCall seemed to be thinking similarly. “How many soldiers?”  
“But a fraction of the entire army. These were lightly armed and mounted, making it likely they were scouts or serving some such purpose.”  
“But why would they want to inform us of their actions and lose the element of surprise?” McCall trailed off.

“Perhaps to intimidate us, or those whose territory they will soon be crossing,” Jamie offered grimly.  
“Or they have less control over their advance forces than we imagined?” added Elliot hopefully. Jamie shot him a look and he was quiet.

“Whatever the reason may be – thank you, messenger,” McCall said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. “Whether this is a calculated move by Baxter or not, we must react promptly. Lord Owen?”

Owen ran his hands through his hair (George hadn’t realised they were still holding hands but he mourned the loss) before speaking. “I propose we accelerate our troop mobilisation, Lord Jamie, and disregard the cost for the time being. We cannot be proud of our financial solvency if it is used to serve our overlords from Exeter.” Billy lurched forward as if he was going to protest, but Mako laid a restraining hand on his brother’s arm.

“Beyond our own forces – we should of course send out envoys to our allies as soon as possible in order that they can begin to raise their own armies.” Hearing George’s intake of breath, he looked down at his husband, mouth twisted. “That includes Lord George’s mission to Bath. It is the best chance we have of obtaining a new alliance in a time of such heightened tensions.”

The blood drained from George’s face, followed by all his earlier cocksure confidence and determination. If Owen saw no alternative to sending him on a mission for which he was undoubtedly unprepared, the stakes must be higher than he’d thought. _Not that he’d miss you while you were gone – or if you didn’t come back._

He looked to McCall, wondering if he would concur with Owen’s assessment. To his shock, the ealdorman was nodding. “Ordinarily I would be reluctant to send out one with relatively little diplomatic experience on a mission of this magnitude, but these are not ordinary times. Lord George, are you willing to travel to and negotiate with Bath, for the good of Middlesex?”

“I am, my lord,” he murmured, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with the ealdorman. If this was his moment, why was he so terrified?

“Thank you. Now – Sir Ben, Sir Jonny: are you still prepared to accompany Lord George?” The two knights nodded, faces betraying little emotion. “Good. Lord Elliot, please organise food for three days for these men, and sufficient money. It would be best,” he said, directing his words to George once more, “if you were to leave immediately after lunch. Time is of the essence; Middlesex is at stake. You four are dismissed.”

McCall nodded to them curtly and George scrambled up from his chair, legs wobbling like a new-born fawn. “My lord,” he said, backing out of the room. He pushed the door out behind him for the knights and Elliot to follow.

The rough rasp of his shirt against his skin was itching at him, and the small corridor in which they were standing was rocking. “By the name of Christ and all his angels,” he hissed out under his breath. Still walking backwards, he tripped over an uneven plank of wood and crashed into the wall. His hands were buzzing and his vision was starting to blur. He was hot and cold and goosebumps were rising on his skin.

“Lord George,” Ben said from somewhere in front of him, “do not worry. Jonny and I will be with you.” A hand was laid on his chest. “Slow your breathing, Georgie,” Ben whispered. “In and out, in and out. Yes, just like that. Well done.”

With a whimper, George clung to his friend weakly. He’d just acted like an utter fool, but Ben still gave him the most praise he’d received in weeks. “Thank you,” he whispered, hoping against hope that Elliot had gone to the kitchens before he’d fallen over.  
“Don’t apologise,” Jonny said, crouching down next to them and rubbing George’s shoulder. “If this mission did not scare you, I would be concerned.”

He allowed himself another minute of comfort in Ben’s arms before getting to his feet. “I must return to my rooms for a moment. I will see you in the kitchens soon for lunch?” The knights nodded, already discussing what weapons they would take, and he bolted away.

He was barely inside the door when he slumped to the ground. The same place which had witnessed his transformation from fear to confidence was now playing host to a new shivering fear. He covered his face with his hands.

He would be riding straight into the lion’s den with only two knights for protection against the might of Exeter. How did they know that Bath had not already been swayed to Baxter’s cause? He could be captured – held for ransom – killed-

The whinny of a horse outside jolted him back into action. He swept up two shirts and his cloak, which would fit in his saddlebags and keep him warm at night. He pulled off his normal boots and exchanged them for his longer riding boots. It was a storm of activity, trying to outrun his racing thoughts.

Pausing for a second, he splashed some cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection. A young man in his twenties, scared but not alone. He had the backing of Middlesex and the friendship of Ealdorman Hooper and his lords waiting for him. Taking a deep breath, he said a prayer and left the room.

Elliot was waiting for him in the corridor outside. “I gave the food and money to Sir Ben to divide between the three of you,” he said, falling into step with the younger man.  
“Thank you,” George said politely. What was Elliot doing here? He’d never been anything but hostile to him, even in their shared status as strangers at court.

“I would just like to say,” Elliot started as they crossed the courtyard, “that I admire what you’re doing. Maybe I let Jamie dictate my feelings towards you too much, but – you’re not that bad.”  
George looked at him out of the corner of his eye and was surprised to see a small smile on his face. “Thank you,” he said again, more genuine this time. “When I return, it would be nice to talk more. I would enjoy comparing our experiences in the Midlands.”  
“That will be a long conversation, then,” Elliot replied with a hint of an eye roll.

They stopped at the gate to the stable yard. “I look forward to it,” George said, extending his hand.  
“As do I.” Elliot took it with a grin. “Safe travels.” As the other man stepped away and walked towards the main hall, George couldn’t help smiling to himself. The fires of terror in his stomach had been doused – with help from the most unexpected quarter.

“Lord George!” Ben called from behind him.  
George turned round to see Ben and Jonny holding the reins of each of their horses, remembering what he was there for. “Apologies.”  
“I have packed the saddlebags for each of us,” Ben said, gesturing to the bulging packs, “although I left room for your clothing.” George inclined his head in gratitude, stuffing his belongings into the bags across his horse’s back.

“And this is for our lunch,” Jonny said, holding up a smaller bag. “It would be best if we set off now and eat it later – we want to make as much progress as we can while the light holds.”  
George nodded, glancing back towards the hall. “Of course.”

The two knights mounted their horses, swords clattering in scabbards. George himself only had a dagger, but he trusted the others. “Hurry up,” Ben said with more urgency. “We need to leave.” George bit his lip, then swung himself up onto Alban’s back. Clearly there would be no other farewells.

“I’m ready,” he said at last, allowing himself one last, hopeful look at the doorway to the main hall. It remained resolutely empty. With a sigh, he nudged his horse into a walk behind the knights’ heavier charges. This was it, then. Out into the unknown-

“Wait!” someone shouted behind them, footsteps echoing. “Please, George, wait!” He turned back, scarcely daring to hope…

“I thought you had left already,” his husband panted, looking up at him.  
“You just caught us in time,” George said with a hidden smile.  
“I’m glad,” Owen said. His eyes caught on the knights hovering behind, and he straightened. “I trust I will see you soon, my love,” he whispered, hand curling around George’s. “Godspeed, and good luck.”

George squeezed back for the briefest of moments before turning Alban away. Owen stood and watched as the three men cantered away from the court and safety. Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, he clutched at the gate for stability.

He knew that George disliked life in Middlesex, that he’d always resented their marriage. Owen hadn’t been best pleased about it himself at first, he could admit, but recently he had been trying to act with greater love and consideration towards his husband. But his actions were roundly repudiated, and he could not push his husband beyond that with which he was comfortable.

Whenever his duties allowed, he would come by their rooms and make conversation, and he always made sure to fall asleep with George, even when they could not wake together.

But now, as the clouds of dust dissipated to reveal an empty road, he could not help feeling that it was too little, too late: both for Middlesex and their relationship.

He sent up a silent prayer and went back to resume his meeting with the ealdorman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins... 
> 
> Let me know if you liked it, and have a great week!


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning dawned clear and cool. George and the two knights had ridden until late, then pulled the horses into a copse well away from the road in which to spend the night. The three men decided not to set a fire and instead ate their food cold. George took the first watch – until the moon was high in the sky and every rustle of the wind tugged at his nerves – before sleeping for a fitful seven hours.

“Good morning, my lord,” Jonny said as George emerged from behind a bush. “I trust you slept well?”  
“I did, thank you – and I told you yesterday not to call me that, remember? George will do well enough.”  
“Yeah,” Ben chimed in from where he was tacking up the horses, “you can’t keep saying ‘my lord’ all the time – what if it’s urgent? You’ll be halfway through the bowing and scraping and poor George will have had his head lopped off.”

George grinned at his friend. Ben always knew the right thing to say, and he was more relaxed around the knight than with most other people. The maelstrom of the Midlands would do that to you, he reflected.

“If you insist, George,” Jonny said, gathering their drinking cups and stowing them in the saddle packs.  
“I do, good sir,” he replied boldly. There was something about the open country that made him feel freer than in the stifling atmosphere of the court. All the manners drilled into him from infancy – they didn’t matter here. It was the sun on your skin, the earth beneath your feet, and nothing to do with who your parents were. He loved it.

Ben bit back a giggle as Jonny turned pink. “Don’t be mean to him; he’s not used to your unconventional ways yet.” He led Alban over to George, who caught the reins and vaulted into the saddle with a barely-repressed groan. The next few days were going to be rough.

“Apologies, Jonny. Anyway – we’re calling in on the Irish settlement in Reading on the way, correct?” George eased his horse into a trot; they could ride and talk at the same time, and he would rather sleep than stand around nattering.  
“Yep,” Ben called, cantering a few paces to catch up. “Just a brief visit to affirm their support and we’ll be on our way.”

George looked across to Jonny, who was riding to his right. “Sound good to you?”  
“Yes, my- George,” he stuttered.  
Ben cackled. “Better not let Lord Owen hear you call him that, now. He might not show it, but he does love our little Georgie.” It was George’s turn to redden. Owen might tolerate him, even like him on occasion, but _love_? Ben must be imagining things.

The party fell silent, heavy breathing replacing light conversation. They alternated between a trot and a canter to keep the horses and themselves fresh, but the knights were more accustomed to a slower pace while loaded with thick armour, and George’s daily outings in the forest had done nothing to prepare him for a pressurised ride across half the country.

Even as they loped towards Reading, George could see the terrain shifting. The trees lining the road were thinning, being replaced by narrow fields and suspicious-eyed peasants toiling in them.

After a few hours, Ben slowed to a walk. “We’re about half an hour from the Irish settlement, if I remember rightly.” George nodded, tightening his grip on the reins. Half an hour to the first real test of his diplomatic skill.  
“Forgive me, but what are your connections to the Irish?” Jonny asked, the _my lord_ evident in his bitten-off delivery.

“Owen’s grandfather is one of the most influential Irish chiefs,” George said with a hint of bitterness. _What he’d give for a lineage like that._ “I met with Keiron several times, which by itself is not enough to impress them, but mentioning my link to him by marriage should do the trick.” Jonny nodded, appeased, and they rode on.

The first sign of the Irish settlement outside Reading was the curls of smoke rising from their fires. George’s heartbeat quickened. They were almost close enough to hear the noises of the small town going about its business. It was going to be fine. He would go into the chieftain’s hall, introduce himself, and secure the support of the Irish for the approaching conflict. Simple, really.

Jonny went on ahead into the town to locate Chief Patrick’s dwellings and to reassure himself that the streets were safe for his noble master, leaving George and Ben to refresh themselves and the horses by the side of the road.

“This feels like – you remember that time Cockerill sent us out to canvass the peasants about a new tax, and the rumours spread faster than we could ride, and we ended up not wanting to go into the last village? It’s the same thing,” Ben said, loosening his horse’s girth while they waited.

“Hmm. I see what you mean.” George took a long drink from his waterskin. “Hopefully we won’t be chased out by a dozen farmers with pitchforks, though.” He laughed to disguise his nerves. Owen had always extolled the commitment of the Irish to Keiron, but what if reality didn’t hold up to the ideal? He would be humiliated and Middlesex would be in even greater danger – if such a thing was possible.

Far too soon, Jonny returned. “Everything looks good,” he reported. “One of the guards asked me what I was doing, wandering fully-armed around their town, so I told him I was escorting you. They’ll probably be expecting you by now.”  
George nodded, stomach churning. “Thank you, Jonny. You lead the way.”

Out on the open road, the clinking of the knights’ weapons hadn’t been particularly noticeable, but now – George was cringing with every eye that swivelled suspiciously towards them. It was like their presence was a wave rising in front of them, swamping all sounds and drawing all attention solely to them. He tried to smile at the children hiding behind their mothers’ skirts, but to no avail.

“Here,” Jonny murmured as they turned in to a courtyard, sliding off his horse. He exchanged a few words with Ben, then handed the reins to the other knight. “Ben will stay with the horses while we meet with the chief,” he said, directing his words at George. He dismounted obediently. This was it: his test run for the negotiations at Bath.

Jonny rapped on the heavy wooden door, George stood a few feet back. Once he’d introduced them, the door swung open and they were admitted inside.

George blinked hard for a few seconds, eyes adjusting to the dimly-lit interior after the bright sunlight outside. “Approach,” a commanding voice boomed and he flinched, taking a step forward and keeping close to Jonny.

He could see now that they were in a long, low room with a fire crackling in the hearth to one side. It was the same layout as the main hall at Middlesex, save for a few less windows. As they approached, he could see that the booming voice had emanated from the man sat at the head of the table – Patrick, chief of the Irish settlement.

“My lord Patrick,” he said, dropping to one knee alongside Jonny, head bowed. “Thank you for allowing us entry to your town. We are most grateful.”  
“You are welcome,” Patrick replied formally. “The London Irish pride themselves on their hospitality, especially to those who are linked to our people.” George fought back a grin, glad to still be facing the floor. He’d forgotten about the pretentious way in which the Irish liked to style themselves – as if they were any more connected to London than the Middlesex court!

“Rise,” Patrick commanded, and George obeyed with a silent prayer of thanks. The riding was taking its toll on his body already. “Come, sit with me, and tell us of the purpose of your visit.” He indicated the chair opposite him, the two either side occupied by unsmiling men, presumably his advisors.

George took his seat, with Jonny taking up a discreet position against the wall. “I come from the court of Middlesex, bearing the well-wishes of my ealdorman, Mark McCall, and my husband, Lord Owen Farrell.” He noticed some of the advisors’ eyes widening – Owen hadn’t been exaggerating the power of his name among the Irish, then. That was a relief.  
“I accept them with thanks and send my best wishes to your court in return,” Patrick replied.

George took a breath, steadying himself. Formalities out of the way – now it was time for the difficult part. “As you will have heard, Exeter is preparing to act against Middlesex, fomenting unrest throughout the country. My court values the support of the London Irish and we would be grateful if you were to reaffirm this commitment in light of recent events.” _Please, please, please-_

After a brief discussion with his advisors, Patrick turned back to George with a smile. “We would be happy to do so. Middlesex has been nothing but a loyal neighbour and ally to us in recent years, and it would be an honour to continue in close association with your court.”  
George beamed. “Thank you, my lord Patrick. I have been sent to negotiate with the court of Bath for their support also, so I am afraid that I cannot pass more time among your community.”

“Of course,” the chieftain said. “Pass on my greetings to Lords Anthony and Jonathan, would you? It has been several years since they have returned to the court of their youth.”  
“I will, my lord. I imagine Middlesex will be send a further emissary to discuss military arrangements, although I pray it will not come to that.”  
“As do we all,” Patrick sighed. “You are doing God’s work on this journey, my lord. Go well.”

Having said their farewells, George and Jonny left the hall, emerging, blinking, into the midday sun. “How did it go?” asked Ben, on them immediately.  
“Without a hitch,” Jonny said, clapping George on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for doubting you, or the reputation of Chief Keiron.”  
“Not a problem,” George grinned, light with relief. He was under no illusions that this was by far the easier task of the mission, but it was reassuring to know he hadn’t messed up yet. “Should we ride for an hour or so, and then break for lunch?” The two knights nodded and they rode out of the Irish town, birds chirping high the in the sky above them.

The rest of the day passed in a pleasant haze for George, feeling as light and carefree as the dust clouds skimming past them on the road. The constant drumming of the horses’ hooves drowned out any negative thoughts; he could have been going on a hunting trip, the fears about Exeter seemed so far away.

The sun was touching the horizon in the west when they paused for the final rest of the day. George sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning against a tree. “Do you know anyone at Bath?” he asked Jonny, draining the last drops of water from the container. “That could help our case.”  
The knight tilted his head to the side, considering. “I believe Sir Sam – Underhill – is in the service of that court at present. We trained together in Gloucester for a time.”

“Gloucester?” George said curiously. “I didn’t know you were from there.”  
Jonny nodded. “I grew up there, but there were just too many knights so I moved to the Midlands for a few years and now I’m at Middlesex.”  
“I suppose that could be useful, having connections among the knights as well as the nobles. Do you know anyone, Ben?”  
“Only the same as you, my lord,” the knight smirked. “We are basically attached at the hip – I don’t have time to meet anyone else.”

George pretended to huff. High on the success of the visit to the London Irish, Ben’s light-hearted dig could not bother him as it might do ordinarily. The endless days of boredom and busywork back at court were receding like a dream after waking, blown away by the small but significant victory in Reading. He was more relaxed than he’d been – probably since he was in Bath. The instability of the Midlands wasn’t exactly conducive to rest and recuperation.

“We should press on,” Jonny said after a few minutes. “If we ride hard, we could make Newbury by nightfall.” George climbed onto Alban’s back wordlessly. Giddy with success he may be, but all excess energy needed to be conserved. The bulk of the mission lay ahead.

The shadows on the road lengthened, softened by the clouds obscuring the sun. The night would not be as bitingly cold as the previous one, and for that George was grateful. Not even the rush of successful diplomacy could keep out the brisk wind rushing over the hills. At least it hadn’t rained yet, he thought, gazing apprehensively at the gathering clouds.

Thankfully the weather remained the same, with the warmth of early May cooling to an uncomfortable chill. He tugged another shirt on and wrapped himself in his cloak, having checked that Alban was safely secured to a nearby tree. He would be taking the middle watch through the deepest black of the night, so he had no compunctions about curling up and going to sleep within minutes of arriving at their makeshift camp.

A few hours later, Ben shook him awake and he suppressed a groan. Nodding at his friend to confirm that he was awake, he pushed himself upright. It was probably just after midnight, judging from the glow of the moon through the clouds. The horses and his companions were all soundly asleep. He was the only person awake for miles around – or so he hoped.

Standing up to stretch his legs, he could see a few fires burning in the distance. It was Newbury, a small but pleasant village he had passed through several times on previous journeys. Normally he would be happily installed in one of the village chief’s rooms, Alban in a stable nearby, but these were not normal times.

A noise caught his attention, drifting on the wind. It came again and he pricked his ears. Then again! He relaxed, recognising it for what it was. The cry of a screech owl was unnerving, unsettling. He shivered. Hopefully it would move on to hunt in another area soon, or Jonny would have to begin his shift earlier than planned.

Mercifully, the screeching persisted for only a few minutes longer before fading into the background once more. The hours dragged by until it was time for Jonny to take the watch. George prodded him back to consciousness, barely waiting for a grunt of confirmation before he himself was asleep, snuggled into his cloak to keep the cold at bay.

All too soon, the sun was pushing through the blanket of sleep, heralding the arrival of yet more hours in the saddle, eating up the miles. It had only been a day and a half since they had left Middlesex, although the aches in George’s body told a different story. What he would give for an actual bed, furniture, hot food…

The roads were quiet, quieter than George remembered them being on his visits to Bath before. A few merchants with their carts were trundling along, easily outpaced by the three men on horseback. A messenger or two passed them at a gallop, but all the farmers and labourers he would have expected to see were absent. The rumours must have been spreading beyond the nobility as the calls to arms went out.

He would have asked the knights for their opinion, but he was too bone-tired to shout over the pounding of the horses’ hooves on the dirt. Instead, he looked around, noting the types of trees and their density, so similar to those at home but also completely different. The one constant in the moving landscape was the Avon, meandering alongside the path and sparkling in the bright light of day. If the situation had been any less serious, George would have suggested stopping for lunch on the banks of the river.

He was on the verge of asking for a break anyway when a man on horse slid to a stop a few metres away from them. The two knights instinctively reached for their swords. “My lord George,” the man gasped – a messenger, from his clothing. The saddlecloth, too, spoke to his profession and his employer: the Middle Saxon court.

George gestured to Ben and Jonny to sheathe their weapons. “William?” he asked, half-recognising him.  
“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said, pushing damp hair off his forehead. “I bring news regarding Exeter. I was on my way to the court, but you should know too.”  
“Go on.” George struggled to hide his frustration.

“Bristol has been taken by Exeter. They surrendered after a day of brutal fighting.” George’s stomach dropped. _Bristol._ That was the next court to Bath, albeit not such an established one. If Exeter had taken Bristol… They could not be without losses, but the gains would surely outweigh them. He bowed his head in a quick prayer.

“Thank you, William,” Ben was saying when he looked up. “I hope to see you at court when this is all over. Godspeed.” George smiled at the young man, hoping to reassure him. The messenger nodded in acknowledgement and kicked his horse on into a gallop, out of sight within minutes.

“We must keep moving,” Jonny said urgently. “We cannot afford to take such long breaks anymore. Every hour is critical.”  
“I agree,” Ben murmured. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Come on, George. Rest for lunch in an hour.” He could do nothing but urge Alban into a canter behind the other two horses, legs screaming and head in a spin.

His eyes blurred and his grip on the reins loosened. Alban was well-trained; he would follow Ben and Jonny’s horses until he dropped. George, on the other hand – his focus was elsewhere.

Exeter had Bristol. It was likely that it was still an advance force, of the type which had ravaged Axminster, only bigger. The greater part of the army would be moving more slowly, and it would be needed to attack the significant defences of Bath. The hills around the town were a natural fortress and the surrounding countryside was fiercely loyal to Ealdorman Hooper.

If it took one day for the advance force to reach Bath and begin harrying the defenders, and another day for the rest of the troops to join them – it was possible that Bath would fall before they had a chance to negotiate. He gritted his teeth, swaying in the saddle. Anthony and Jonathan, Jonny’s friend Sir Sam – they deserved better. He had no choice but to keep riding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I inadvertently send the Leicester backline on the mission while the Saracens stay at court? Well, yes. (Am I ignoring the fact that Jonny is going back to Gloucester? Also yes.)
> 
> I hope everyone a good week - stay safe out there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice bit of Owen’s perspective for you... Have a good week!

Owen hid a yawn behind his hand. The war council was dragging on into the late afternoon, McCall debating every possible strategy and outcome with a host of advisors. Usually he and Jamie would discuss what needed to be done with the ealdorman by themselves, but the gravity of the situation apparently required more opinions to be added to the mix. _Too many cooks_ , Jamie mouthed at him across the table, and Owen was inclined to agree.

It was almost time for dinner, and the Vunipolas had yet to present their report – which would inevitably provoke another round of pointless debate. _Do you want food?_ he mouthed at Jamie and Elliot, pointing at them and then the door. McCall was too wrapped up in his discussions to notice such a breach of propriety. Jamie squinted for a second until his husband whispered something in his ear, then grinned.

“My lord,” Owen said, leaning forward to catch McCall’s eye, “since the present discussions to not appear to require our presence, would Lord Jamie, Lord Elliot, and I be permitted to retire for a moment?” The ealdorman stared at him for a moment as if reminded of his presence in the room, then dismissed them with a nod and returned to the heated debate with the advisors. Owen winked at the other lords and left the room.

“Nicely done,” Jamie smirked, closing the door behind him. “Now, on to more pressing matters – what’s for dinner, Elliot?” They laughed quietly, errant schoolboys escaping from a dull class. The three men walked along the corridor outside the hall and went to cross the courtyard to the kitchens, talking easily.

Although the sun was still visible above the trees, Owen shivered. A chill was hanging in the air, unseasonably cold for the time of year. His thoughts were drawn once more to his husband, as so often in the last few days. Each night and before every meal he prayed for George’s continued safety and the success of the mission. When it came down to it, he wasn’t sure whether he would sacrifice Middlesex for the wellbeing of his husband, but he would certainly have second thoughts about the decision.

The three noblemen entered the kitchen, Elliot greeting the cooks with a cheery grin. Owen and Jamie stood off to one side, neither man as comfortable with the servants as Elliot. It was his domain, after all, Owen thought to himself – he should know the names and faces of those reporting directly to him. If he didn’t have the same rapport with his subordinates, that was nobody else’s problem (especially if he had tried and failed to do the same: communication in new arenas did not come easily to him).

Once Elliot had finished his rounds and collected their food, they traipsed back to the main part of the court to eat. Owen settled into a chair, gratefully accepting the plate of beef and vegetables Elliot handed to him. “How do you think George is getting on?” Elliot asked.

Owen shrugged. “We haven’t heard anything yet, so no news can only be good news. I expect we would have received a message by now if something had happened – with George and the knights, or with Exeter.”  
“I hope so. George is a good man.” Elliot took a bite of his food, seemingly unaware of the discomfort of his husband.  
“The three of them are assets to the court,” Jamie said finally, expressionless.

An uneasy silence fell, broken only by the clatter of cutlery on plates. “I’ll take these back,” Owen said, holding out a hand for the empty dishes.  
“Thank you,” Elliot said with a smile. Jamie passed over his plate without speaking.

Owen walked back across the courtyard with the stack of dirty plates. He had never really noticed Jamie’s hostility towards George before. Elliot was sweet and kind to everyone, but his husband, on the other hand… Maybe Elliot knew what it was like to have to integrate into a new court, he reasoned. He and Jamie had been at Middlesex for over a decade, and they were within their rights to be territorial.

He dropped off the plates in the kitchen, making sure to smile and thank the cooks for their efforts, and stepped back outside. After the warmth of the kitchens, the air on his skin was even more chilled now. He glanced at the sky. No clouds coming in, either – it was going to be a cold night.

He was halfway across the courtyard when a clattering of hooves made his head jerk round. A messenger – William, if his memory served him well – was jumping from his dripping wet horse. He nearly stumbled to the floor, and Owen instinctively moved to catch him.

“Thank you, my lord,” the man gasped.  
“Do not worry. What news do you bring?” Owen had to clutch at William’s arms to steady himself, let alone the exhausted man.  
“Bristol, my lord,” he panted. “Exeter has taken Bristol.”

Owen’s blood ran cold. So close to Bath – there was no way it was safe for George. “Any news regarding my husband?”  
“I passed him on the road, near Hungerford. He and the knights kept riding towards Bath. He seemed well, if tired.”  
Owen squeezed his eyes shut. “Thank you, William. You have done the court a great service today. Go, rest. I will have someone bring food to your quarters.”

With a breathless “Thank you, my lord,” the messenger staggered away. Owen dropped his head into his hands. There was nothing he could do but hope and pray for George’s safety. Maybe he hadn’t tried as hard as he could in recent months to spend time with his husband, but he would miss him beyond words if – if anything happened. _Lord, watch over him. Lord, give him strength in his hour of need._

He snapped back into himself, realising he had been staring at the sky in a daze. McCall and the others needed to know. Ordering the first servant he found to attend to William, he collected Jamie and Elliot – for once, both of them reading his mood and remaining mercifully silent – and went to the main hall.

He knocked once, then pushed his way inside without waiting for a response. The ealdorman and his gaggle of advisors looked round, frowning at the disruption. “My lord,” he said, “I bring news.” He could have heard a pin drop.  
“Take a seat,” McCall said, concern growing on his face at the worn appearance of his second in command.

“Bristol has fallen to Exeter,” he murmured. The others gasped in shock, a low murmur immediately breaking out among the advisors.  
“Quiet!” McCall ordered. “Who told you this? Can we trust them?”  
“It was William the messenger, my lord. He saw it with his own eyes.”

The last shreds of doubt blown away, McCall covered his face for a moment. When he lowered his hands, his expression was resolute. “Do we know of the progress of Lord George’s mission?”  
“William passed them by Hungerford. The meeting with the London Irish must have had a satisfying conclusion, and they were making for Bath at speed.”

“Hungerford…” the ealdorman mused. “If Exeter has taken Bristol, and our party are moving faster than the enemy forces – is it possible that they would arrive in time?”  
Owen bit his lip. “There is a slim chance, my lord. We must hope for the best: there is nothing else we can do now.”

McCall scanned the room. “This paints our discussions in a very different light. Billy, Mako – how much longer do you estimate the troop muster will take? When will our men be armed?”  
Billy rose to speak, smiling obsequiously. “I regret to inform my lord that the raising of the troops has been taking longer than expected. The village chiefs tell us the men are resisting the summons.”  
Owen frowned. The Middle Saxons had always been unfailingly loyal to their ealdorman – what had changed?

McCall seemed to share his confusion. “On what grounds?”  
“They say that – that the harvest is at risk, my lord,” Billy replied, looking at his brother quickly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Elliot interrupted. “Surely the good weather is helping their crops – late spring is not exactly a critical time in the farming calendar.”  
“Ah, well,” Billy stuttered, “I can only pass on what the chiefs have told me, my lord. Perhaps they are deceiving us. I am not experienced enough in agricultural matters to know.” He retook his seat, slumping down as if to hide himself.

“Whatever the reason,” McCall said brusquely, “the process must be sped up. Lord Jamie, please take over this role in Billy and Mako’s stead. We must be able to trust that our forces are gathering at the greatest speed.” Jamie nodded. Billy glared at him, but the nobleman did not appear to notice, sighing heavily. “King Edward's court is at Worcester at present - if only he were the type to intervene in these situations. Well, it is what it is,” he continued. “I adjourn the meeting now. We will meet again in the morning at the earliest hour.” McCall left the room, his advisors scurrying after him.

Owen, Jamie, and Elliot remained, facing the Vunipolas across the table. Billy was bristling; Mako just looked bemused. “I wish you luck,” Billy said with barely suppressed venom, and swept out. Mako smiled apologetically and trailed behind him.  
Jamie looked between his two friends. “What was all that about? I’m not exactly usurping his position. Merchant is one of the most secure positions in court anyway – McCall would never fire him, or Mako.”

Owen hummed. His mind was elsewhere. He’d run through the calculations in his head enough times to be certain that he was right, but – there were so many variables. If Exeter sent ahead an advance force, if Bath refused to hear what George had to say – even if something innocuous happened like Alban pulling up lame, that could spell the end for both George and Middlesex.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m going to my rooms now,” he said stiffly. “See you later.” Without waiting for his friends’ response, he stalked off. He balled his hands into fists. Why had he been so callous earlier as to laugh and joke with the other lords? His husband – if only in name – was somewhere out there as all manner of dastardly forces closed in on him. Meanwhile, Owen was sitting in state and fussing over troop numbers and how many swords they would be able to buy in the next week. _Ridiculous_ , he cursed himself.

His feet carried him to the window and he rested his hands on the sill, gazing at the sunset. _Red sky at night, shepherds’ delight_ , he thought firmly. George had two of their best knights with him, and he was no slouch with a sword himself. Alban was lightning quick. He hoped – no, he _knew_ that they would be able to extract themselves from almost any situation.

It was the _almost_ that was playing on his mind. The first stars were sparking into view, blurring with the prickling of his eyes. For all he prided himself on being an attentive husband – he’d really been awful. If George didn’t hate him for the last few years, he was the better man. Owen had taken him ungraciously from his home and installed him in Middlesex, a court which had a reputation for being an insiders’ club. No wonder George had retreated in on himself, with nobody save a few knights to support him.

Owen dug his nails into the palms of his hands. When George returned, he would be the most attentive husband anyone could hope for, he pledged. It would never be enough to make up for the past, but he was now realising that he truly cared for the man and that George deserved better.

He knelt at the foot of the bed, too big for him alone. _Our Father_ , he began, reciting the familiar words with unusual fervour, _who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name_. After longer spent in supplication than in the previous week, he dragged himself up onto the bed. It was too cold at night without the heat of George’s body. Pulling another blanket over him to attempt to make up for the loss, he closed his eyes.

What felt like a minute later, he jerked awake to someone banging at his door. “Lord Owen,” one of the servants called, “Ealdorman McCall requests your presence upon the instant.”  
“Tell him I’m coming!” he shouted back, rolling out of bed and tugging on a shirt. Glancing at the window, he could see the moon illuminating the courtyard. All the dread of the previous hours gathered in his throat. He wanted to vomit.

Picking up his cloak for good measure, he jogged down to the main hall. Everywhere was in darkness but that room. An uneasy chatter of voices accompanied the slit of light spilling into the corridor from under the door. He opened it, gut churning and heart pounding.

“Lord Owen,” McCall said. His face was a mask, but Owen could tell from the fearful expressions of the advisors that it was yet more bad news.  
“My lord,” he greeted him with a trembling voice.

Once Owen had assumed his usual position to the right of the ealdorman, McCall began to speak. “We have received word that, further to Exeter’s capture of Bristol earlier today, they have formed alliances with several other courts.” Owen swallowed, gripping the arms of his chair to ground himself. “So far, reports have indicated that Bristol, Gloucester, Cardiff, and possibly more Welsh kingdoms have joined forces with Exeter. Obviously it will take time for all their troops to coordinate, but that is the only silver lining in a very dark cloud.”

The room was silent. Owen’s blood was rushing loud in his ears, breath ragged. Bristol – Gloucester – Cardiff- The enemy was building a prodigious base in the west which they could not hope to counter without some miracle. _Our Father_ , he started again, squeezing his eyes closed. _Our Father-_

“Owen!” McCall interrupted. “We must focus.” He winced. “Clearly there is nothing we can do now but wait. Lord Jamie assures me the troop muster continues apace. It is a small mercy indeed that these enemy kingdoms and courts are at such distances from each other.”

“My lord,” Owen said hoarsely, “what about George? If Bristol and Gloucester have crossed over to the enemy, surely Bath cannot be far behind?”  
McCall furrowed his brow. “I take your point. I will send a messenger haste-post-haste to call him and Sirs Ben and Jonny back. It is too late for any one man to change the course of events, and his potential capture would bring about far more problems than if he somehow managed to convince Bath to ally with us.”

Owen exhaled. It was a small blessing, although- “How can you be sure a messenger will reach them in time? They have been riding for two days now; they cannot be far from Bath.”  
McCall shook his head. “I’m sorry, Owen, but I cannot promise anything. We can but try our hardest and pray for salvation.”

Owen bowed his head, fingers dropping instinctively to fiddle with his wedding ring. The ealdorman was right. He could only pray: McCall would never permit him to go out and search himself. George (and Ben, and Jonny, he reminded himself) was in the hands of the Almighty now.

The meeting dispersed, soft murmurs dissipating along with the advisors. He couldn’t bring himself to move. At first, this cursed mission had seemed to be idle speculation, a mere flight of fancy. In the space of three days – little more than seventy hours – George was halfway across the country as events unfolded around him of which Owen could only hope he was aware. Was it better to go to the scaffold unknowing or prepared?

Someone patted him on the shoulder and he jumped. “Are you alright?” Billy asked, taking the seat next to him. The hall around them was empty, he realised belatedly.  
“I – no,” he admitted, slumping forwards with his head in his hands. When he next spoke, his voice was muffled. “My husband – who has never been anything but respectful and kind towards me, and who I treated like dirt – is probably riding towards imprisonment, if not death. I should be with him.”

Billy’s expression softened. “That is an admirable position. But don’t you think you could serve Middlesex better here? McCall relies on you, after all.”  
Owen snorted despite himself. “On me? That’s funny. Have you seen all his precious advisors? He doesn’t need me – George does.”  
The merchant’s face twisted. “He’d want you to be safe, Owen. That’s how you can help him best right now.”

“No!” Owen burst out. “Me sitting here and twiddling my thumbs is doing absolutely _nothing_ to help him. I have to go and find him.”  
Billy jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned. “But not now,” he said, in a tone approaching conciliatory. “It’s the middle of the night. You would do best to sleep on it and reconsider in the morning. Don’t make any rash decisions, hmm?”

Owen rubbed at his eyes, suddenly drained. “Fine. I’ll ask McCall tomorrow, first thing.”  
Billy smiled. “That’s more like it. In the light of day, you’ll realise what’s best for everyone, not just the two of you.”  
“Good night, Billy,” Owen said wearily. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Billy bid him farewell and Owen stumbled back to his room.

Everything was going from bad to worse. All of a sudden, the combination of Exeter and Bristol didn’t seem so fearsome. But Exeter, Bristol, Gloucester, Cardiff, and God knows how many more? That was an alliance fit to strike terror into the heart of any man.

He passed the rest of the night tossing and turning, unable to return to the blissful ignorance of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a monster chapter for you today - please be aware that this is where the major character injury tag becomes relevant! (More detailed content warning in the end notes.)

The next morning – the third day out in the open, George’s aching muscles reminded him – was heralded by a sky streaked with red. He saw Ben and Jonny exchange a loaded look, but he refused to think negatively. They were so close to Bath now. If the weather held and all went well, they would be at the court by the end of the day. He rolled his shoulders, wincing. The next few hours would be agonising, but he was willing to make the sacrifice for Middlesex.

The two knights were suffering too, by their grunts as they mounted. George couldn’t hold in a snort. “Hey, you,” Jonny groaned, “stop mocking us. We have to carry heavy swords, and look out for danger. You just have to keep up.”  
“Exactly,” Ben added, shifting in the saddle. “Do you want to wear some chainmail in this heat? I don’t think so.” George shrugged. It wasn’t like there were any imminent threats – at least, not to him personally.

“Are you old men ready?” he asked, making a show of stretching out his arms, unencumbered by armour. The knights huffed an agreement and they were off again. As the stiffness eased from his muscles, replaced by pure pain, he prayed that this would be the last day of riding. They weren’t far away – forty-five miles. The cloudless sky and the sun beating down on them foretold an easy end to the journey.

The horses cantered on. Unlike their riders, they seemed fit and prepared to travel forever. _Some of us are used to more comfortable sleeping arrangements,_ George thought. With that, his mind drifted back to Owen. His husband was probably enjoying the time he was away from court. He could spend all the time he wanted with Jamie, and maybe even Elliot, without having his disappointment of a husband hanging around.

To distract himself from the gloomy thoughts, he pushed Alban to move up next to Ben. “Do you think we should stop for lunch?” he asked loudly over the rhythmic thud of the horses’ hooves.  
“It would be best to push on,” Ben said, looking over at him. “We’re almost there, and every minute counts.”  
“Alright,” George said, affecting a groan of discomfort. “Let’s hope none of my limbs fall off by then.”

The trees lining the road thickened, casting shadows across their path. George could see his two companions scanning their surroundings out of the corner of his eye. He knew the situation was dangerous, but somehow their easy banter had allowed him to forget for a few hours.

They were riding along, George lost in thought again, body moving with the rise and fall of the horse underneath him on instinct, when Jonny suddenly yelled, charging at the hedge. George jolted back into himself in alarm. Ben was pulling his horse around between George and whatever Jonny was shouting about, spooking Alban, when-

George hit the ground with a thud. Next thing he knew, Ben had appeared next to him, murmuring softly, while hoofbeats receded into the distance. Then an excruciating pain made itself known in his shoulder. He tried to move it, sending sharp ripples of agony through his body. He twisted his head to look. _Oh God…_

“Don’t worry,” Ben was saying. “Jonny is giving chase. All you need to do is stay still. I can’t get the arrow out without his help.” George whimpered, trying to wriggle away from the throbbing sting. “No, Georgie. Keep still. We need to wait. Be brave.”

In spite of Ben’s soothing words, tears dribbled down George’s cheeks. The arrow wound – _someone had_ shot _him_ – had settled to a dull ache pulsing through him. Every breath jostled the head of the arrow and he could feel the muscles pulling at it. _There was an arrow in his shoulder. An arrow. In his shoulder. Who? Why?_

“Hey, shush,” Ben murmured, stroking the side of his face. “Try to relax. Tensing your shoulder won’t help anything.” George clenched his fists, then let out a yowl of pain. _Your right arm is out of action, idiot._ “No, don’t do that. Stop being stubborn. Look, if you want to cause yourself pain, roll onto your good side so I can examine the wound. We’ll have to push it through to avoid tearing more muscles, but I want to see how close it is to the surface first.”

Slowly, hesitantly, George shifted his weight onto his left side, pushing himself over with his feet. The pain in his legs felt like sunburn in comparison to the agony of his shoulder. “That’s good,” Ben whispered, sliding his fingers inside George’s shirt. He was tempted to ask why the knight hadn’t cut it off, when he remembered – _arrow. Delirium must be setting in._

“This might hurt a little.” Ben began to probe at the area around his shoulder blade, applying light pressure to the shaft of the arrow at first and then pushing harder. George let out a long moan, and everything went black.

When he came to, both Ben and Jonny were crouched next to him with concerned expressions on their faces. “What the hell happened?” he asked. _Please distract me_ , he thought.  
Jonny patted his uninjured shoulder. “I saw a man hiding in the trees. He had a bow. I rode towards him, trying to scare him, and he shot at you.”  
“Good thing Alban moved when he did, or we might not be having this conversation,” Ben said, looking more shaken than he had allowed himself to be earlier.

“I saw that he’d hit you, but I knew Ben would look after you, so I followed him. Chased him for a few miles before he outpaced me – his horse was fresher, although we gave it a good go.”  
“Do you know why?” George croaked, throat dry.

“As I said, I didn’t catch him, but… I recognise those arrows, from back when I was training at Gloucester. They always said it would be useful to know the arrows used in different areas.” He paused. “That’s an Exeter arrow.”

George’s jaw would have dropped if he wasn’t lying flat on his back. “They can’t know – surely not!” A thought gripped him. “Do you know if there are more of them?”  
“I checked the fields around us before I came back here,” Jonny said calmly. “We are safe – for now.”

“What are we going to do now?” George asked. He knew very well what was going to happen, but he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate the reality. He’d seen the – operation was the wrong word, too precise – _procedure_ carried out on a few poor unfortunates, and he could still hear their screams.

“We’ll try and make it quick.” Ben squeezed his hand before rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll push, and you can hold him down,” he said to the other knight. All three men were pale.  
“Hang on,” Jonny said, standing up and moving to the horses. He removed one of the stirrup leathers and held it up. “Put it between your teeth, George, and bite down hard.” Screwing his eyes shut, he opened his mouth to accept the strap. Dread and fear and panic were curling in his stomach.

“Be brave, Georgie,” Ben said. Then he started pushing.

If George thought the pain before was bad, the slow ripping of his flesh at his friend’s hands was a thousand times worse. He writhed in Jonny’s grip, struggling away and towards and out all at once, yelling fit to burst. Blood was roaring in his ears and spilling on his shirt and Ben’s hands. It was the agony of all the fires of Hell.

By the time he heard Ben breathe a sigh of relief as the arrowhead breached the skin on the other side, it was as if he was watching the scene from above. His body was limp. His face was slack, blank, and unmoving as Ben pulled the rest of the arrow out. A small wince flashed across his features when Jonny pressed a bundle of cloth against the wound but there was no other reaction.

“There you go,” Ben said, setting the bloodied weapon to one side. “It’s out now.”  
“Can you sit up?” Jonny asked urgently. “We need to stem the blood flow, and my shirt isn’t doing enough.” George nodded, still feeling detached from the physical sensations – gaping pain, a dull throb. _Whatever made life easier for his friends_. Ben and Jonny pushed him upright like children playing with a rag doll.

The two men were having a hushed conversation over the top of his head. George caught the words _Exeter_ and _mission_ and _blood loss_ and _greater good_ in furious whispers, but he was too exhausted to listen for more. Eventually, the two knights sat down beside him, still slumped at the side of the road.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked, sympathy written on his face.  
George attempted to shrug, then winced. “Like someone put an arrow through my shoulder.” The shirt he was holding to his shoulder was almost soaked through with blood but the pain had dulled to a pulsing ache from the sharp stabs of before.

“I’ll be blunt,” Jonny said. “We have to keep going. We’re so close now. I can make a sling for your arm and we’ll bandage the wound as best we can, but getting to Bath is the priority. Once we arrive and you negotiate with them, their healers can sort you out and you can rest.” George made a noise of acquiescence, too sluggish to protest.

Ben, on the other hand, had no such concerns. “The priority, if I need to remind you, is getting George to Bath _in one piece_. It’s no good if he bleeds out on the road two miles away, is it? He should rest now.”  
“He can’t rest,” Jonny retorted. “You know how long arrow wounds take to heal. We don’t have enough time.”

George held up a hand. “How about we keep riding, but with more breaks? We’ll go as far as we can today and then stay at someone’s house tonight. The closer we are to Bath, the more likely it is that I will know someone who will take us in.” He closed his eyes, worn out with the effort.

The two knights mumbled their agreement and moved off to prepare the bandages. George let his focus slip. In truth, he would have preferred to remain right where he was, body shutting down into survival mode. That wasn’t an option, though. They hadn’t come this far to fail now, just because of an arrow in his shoulder. _At least it wasn’t through your chest_ , a small voice reminded him. At least he could still ride – for now.

He allowed his companions to plug the wound and wrap a shirt around his arm to keep it stabilised. The rocking motion of the horse would be hell, however they tried to bind the injury. Ben pulled him to his feet and boosted him onto Alban’s back. He gritted his teeth, determined not to fall off. Reins clutched in his left hand, he nudged the horse into motion.

The forty-five miles that had seemed such a short journey just an hour before were now an insurmountable distance. Even the brief trot before Alban transitioned into a smoother canter ripped soft whines from his mouth.

They managed half an hour before Ben called them to a halt. Jonny shot an angry look at him. “No,” the older man said calmly, “he needs a break. His face is grey.” The two knights dismounted while George swayed in the saddle. “Take your feet out of the stirrups,” Ben said, as if he were coaching a child through their first riding lesson. “Swing your leg over, and Jonny and I are here ready to catch you.”

George leaned forward tentatively. Truth be told, he would rather lie down against Alban’s neck for a few minute than go through the jerky procedure of effectively falling off his horse and being thrown back on again. Slipping his feet from the stirrup irons, he swung his leg over Alban’s back as Ben had instructed. He dropped the reins and let himself slide.

He landed in the knights’ arms with a heavy grunt. Ben inspected the reddening bandages with pursed lips. “This isn’t good, but I can’t think of anything else to do.” Jonny had already walked away. “I suppose he’s sulking,” Ben whispered conspiratorially in George’s ear, bringing a smile to his face. “Now, come on, let’s get you on the floor again. It won’t hurt as much if you’re relaxed.”

Sitting on the grassy verge at the side of the road, back resting against a pile of saddlebags, he tentatively prodded at the wound. It was just below his collarbone, which could easily have been shattered by an arrow shot from such close range. He sent up a prayer of thanks. Instead, the muscles in his chest and shoulder were almost shredded, loose in all the places where they should be taut.

A few minutes later – a few waves of tingling pain later – Jonny emerged from a thicket with something clutched in his hand. Ben made a sound of recognition. “What is it?” George asked.  
“It’s-"

“Willow bark,” Jonny said triumphantly. “Normally you should brew it for a bit and drink the tea, but we don’t have another option.” He handed it to George, who was looking sceptical. “You chew it, and it relieves pain. I think it has an effect in about – half an hour? So you can chew on it now and you should be feeling better by the next break.”

George exchanged a bemused glance with Ben and put the bark in his mouth anyway. It wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. Hours more in the saddle would only make the pain worse, so he would take any help he could find.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon dragged by. George was wincing with every step, clenching his jaw to keep in his moans of pain. They wouldn’t be any help anyway. Even the bright sun, so welcome before, seemed to be conspiring against him. Sweat was pricking at his brow, running down his face in streams to mix with the blood oozing from his shoulder. The only mercy was that Jonny’s willow bark was having an effect: the sparking pain of earlier had smoothed into a low thrum of discomfort. He wouldn’t be holding a sword again anytime soon, but it was manageable.

It was evening when they stopped on the road for the final time. They repeated the humiliating rigmarole of helping George dismount and sat in a circle on a patch of grass while the horses grazed around them. “We’re near Marlborough,” Jonny said, ripping up a few blades of grass and scattering them in the wind. “Do you know anyone round here who would be willing to take us in?” George considered for a long moment, pushing through the fog in his mind.

“If we ride due south for a couple of miles, we should reach the house of Christopher Robshaw,” he said finally. “He’s trustworthy, and not of high enough standing to be involved in factional conflict.”  
“How do you know him?” Ben asked. As reticent as his friend sometimes was, he had a knack for turning up useful contacts in almost any area of the country.  
“His family worked on my father’s land for a time. They were honest and diligent, and my father rewarded Chris with his own estate. He has to take us in because of the family debt – although he would anyway; he has a kind heart.”

“Right,” Jonny said, twisting his back in a stretch. “We will go to his house and hopefully spend the night. Once you have had a good few hours of sleep, we can press on in the morning.”  
“We are almost out of food,” Ben pointed out. “It could be worth asking him for more provisions as well. At this pace, we will have another day for which Lord Elliot did not account.”

George nodded blearily. The mere thought of a bed and a hot meal was making him woozy, blood loss notwithstanding. He held out a hand for one of the knights to haul him to his feet. Jonny obliged, hoisting him onto the horse for good measure.

They trekked through the open fields, all thoughts of tree-lined pathways banished from their minds. Ever vigilant, Jonny had taken to riding a way ahead of the others to check for any more Exeter assassins lying in wait. The sun was dipping below the horizon and, in spite of the two cloaks he was wearing, he was unable to stop shivering. Chris’s house couldn’t come soon enough.

At long last, he recognised the house, standing well back from the road. He’d visited a few times, albeit it years ago. “Here,” he murmured, tipping his head towards the complex of buildings. Ben yelled for Jonny to come back, and they set off down the narrow path. It was a humble dwelling, as befitted a man of Chris’s status, but well maintained and with the smell of burning fires blanketing the small courtyard.

A woman, dressed in simple clothing marking her out as a servant, came out of one of the buildings, clearly startled by the sight of two armed men and their bloodied companion. “Can I help you?” she asked, eyes narrowing.  
“Indeed, good lady,” Ben said, jumping to the ground. George would have rolled his eyes at the address if he’d had any strength to spare. “I am here in the service of Lord George Ford, an old friend of your master. He is gravely injured and we require somewhere to stay for the night.” George felt her eyes flick over to him and he forced a weak smile.

“Very well,” she said. “I will consult with my master and return to inform you of his decision.” As she bustled off, Jonny dismounted and held Alban’s reins while Ben eased George out of the saddle for what would hopefully be the last time that day.  
“Easy there,” Ben said, rubbing at his back when he staggered. “They will have a healer here to help you.” George only groaned in response.

“My master would like to see you upon the instant,” the woman told them. “One of the ostlers will take your horses- “she indicated a tall, thin man hovering behind her- “and you may follow me.” George stroked Alban’s nose in thanks before walking unsteadily after the servant.

The hall into which they were led was warm, lit by a blazing fire. George’s eyes ran along the long table, ignoring the cramping in his stomach at the plates of food, until he saw his old friend. “Chris,” he said faintly, taking a hesitant step towards him.  
“Lord George!” Chris exclaimed, rising from his chair. His broad smile quickly turned to a look of concern as he took in the sight of the man before him. The two knights were just as covered in sweat and dirt, but the stark red blood on the nobleman’s shirt set him apart.

“Good God, take a seat,” he said, moving around the table to pull out a chair. “You look like death.” George slumped into the seat with a sigh of relief. “What on earth happened?”  
“Arrow to the shoulder,” Jonny said, clipped. “Do you have someone who can attend to the wound? I did my best but that wasn’t much. We’ve been riding all day.”

Chris immediately called over a servant and murmured in their ear. Once they had left, he turned back to face them. “You two are-?”  
“Sir Ben and Sir Jonny,” Ben supplied, “accompanying Lord George on a diplomatic mission to Bath, which is of vital importance to our court of Middlesex.” Chris’s mouth opened in a silent gesture of understanding.

“Then please sit, eat,” he said, taking some plates and offering them to the men. “All three of you look like you need it. I have sent for my physician, who will be able to dress the wound and relieve his pain. I suppose you will be wanting to stay the night?”

“If possible, sir,” Jonny said. “My lord is not exactly in a fit state to be sleeping on the ground again.”  
“Of course, of course. I will have beds made up for you.”  
“Thank you, Chris,” George said quietly, raising his head. “God bless you.”  
He waved off the compliment. “Don’t be silly – it’s the least I can do.”

The two knights tucked in with gusto, the rations of the previous days not having sated their appetites in the slightest. George picked at a piece of pork for a few minutes before the physician arrived. His gut was rebelling again at the thought of yet more pain.

A few minutes later, a healer appeared. A short woman with a brisk manner, she ordered George to follow her. He shoved a last bite of meat into his mouth and trailed after her. As he passed, Ben squeezed his hand and murmured, “We’ll come and see you when she’s finished.” George nodded gratefully and hurried away.

She bustled down a rabbit warren of corridors, eventually emerging in a dimly-lit bedchamber. “I’m Hilda,” she said, washing her hands in a small bowl.  
“George,” he offered. She looked at him with a smile and he sensed he’d done the right thing.

“I hear you had an arrow through the shoulder, yes?” she asked, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed and pulling away the sling. He murmured confirmation. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, the way his shoulder was bandaged. She tugged off his shirt as well for good measure, leaving him half-naked and shivering, the only material on his torso the cloth Jonny had padded the wound with.

She looked at the injury and shook her head. “You can tell you kept riding afterwards,” was all she said before picking up a skin of alcohol. “I’m going to clean the wound so it doesn’t go bad.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “It will sting, so prepare yourself.”

George obediently tightened the grip of his left hand in the bedsheets, right arm hanging loose as was now normal. Hilda peeled away the last cloths over the injury. He winced. The congealed blood had stuck them to his skin and the smell was horrific. Even the slaughterhouse didn’t have such a repugnant aroma in his recollection of it.

“Steady,” she murmured, and dripped some alcohol into the wound. He twisted away instinctively at the burning sensation, keening between his teeth. “No,” she said sternly, “you must stay still. If we don’t clean it, you could lose the arm – or die.” That stiffened his resolve.

He gritted his teeth through a thorough examination and cleaning of the injury and then Hilda’s efficient dressing of the entry and exit wounds. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.  
“No matter,” she clucked. “I’ve had worse patients. Now, you must rest. I will tell your companions to bring you food and drink for when you wake up, along with a remedy to ease the pain.” Knowing by now that Hilda was not a woman to cross, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. The softness of the mattress and the warmth of both blankets and fire were enough to have him asleep in minutes.

He awoke what must have been a few hours later. It was still dark a few hours later and the fire had burned low, just illuminating the figure of Ben gazing into its depths. “Ben,” he croaked, too drained to speak louder.

The knight was at his side in a flash. “George – how do you feel?”  
He smiled weakly. “Better. Still tired.”  
“I’m not surprised. Jonny should be coming in a couple of hours to watch over you, but I’m here for now.” He seemed to remember Hilda’s instructions. “You need to drink this,” he said, holding out a cup. George sniffed it – not too unpleasant. He swallowed it down in one, too bone-tired to ask why.

“How was your dinner?” he asked slowly.  
“The food was delicious,” Ben said, a smile creeping over his face. “We saved some for you, and the cooks are making up a ration pack for tomorrow for us.” George nodded, eyes sliding shut again.

“Oh, and Christopher told us more about Exeter’s activities in the area.”  
George reluctantly wrenched his eyes open. “Go on.”  
“They’ve taken and ravaged several more religious houses in the past day. Banwell, Taunton, Athelney, Muchelney… It’s as if they have no regard for the Almighty.”

George attempted to roll his shoulders and winced. “Is it safe to remain here? We are so close to Bath, after all, and enemy forces are advancing all the time.”  
Ben stroked his hair lightly. “A few hours won’t change anything now, Georgie. You’d do best to sleep until morning and we will reassess then.”

Nodding blearily, George sank down into the pillows with a yawn. Hilda’s concoction was evidently having an effect – he felt like he could sleep for a week, and the ache in his shoulder was barely noticeable.

As his young companion fell into a deep sleep, Ben considered him. In the low light of the flickering fire, you could be forgiven for thinking he was not yet out of his teens. All the hardships he’d had to face were held in his mind, not written on his countenance. “Sweet dreams, Georgie,” he whispered, and turned back to the fire. One more day, and they would all be able to rest. God knows they needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a character is shot with an arrow which then has to be removed; descriptions of blood and intense physical pain


	6. Chapter 6

The three men departed from Chris’s house accompanied by dark clouds hanging over their heads. Their food and energy stores had been replenished – George had two doses of Hilda’s pain-relieving potion tucked away in his saddlebags – but the glowering sky ensured the mood remained appropriately sombre.

A few hours in, the heavens opened. Rain poured down, splattering both horses and riders with chilling mud. Such rain was unusual for May, but not unheard of. They pressed on, George now shivering from the cold instead of pain.

Lunch was a desolate meal. They huddled under the shelter of a few spreading oak trees, passing around pieces of cured meat and vegetables. It was a far cry from a few days ago when they were eating on the banks of the shimmering Avon in bright sunshine. Now everything was bleak and grey. George couldn’t have come up with a better metaphor if he’d tried.

They mounted again after cursorily brushing the excess water from the horses’ backs and rode on. George’s shoulder was stiff, but he was able to shift with Alban’s rocking motion without much difficulty. Forty miles? Thirty-five miles? The distance was not as daunting as before, though it would still be uncomfortable.

The rain continued to beat down on them, plastering George’s hair to his head and running down the back of his neck. The knights in their armour looked to be in an even worse state: their clothes were drenched and the metal was only adding to the chill. The hairs on his arms stood up. This all-encompassing cold was likely worse after the warmth of the previous night. He shuddered. Hopefully the rain would cease, or they would be in for a miserable evening.

It must have only been a few more miles until Jonny called them to a halt. “We can’t keep going in this,” he shouted through the driving rain. “The horses keep stumbling. If we’re not careful, one of them will pull up lame or break a leg.”  
“What do you suggest we do, then?” Ben asked, irritated. “This rain could go on for days.”  
“If you want to kill your horse, be my guest!” Jonny yelled. “If you actually stopped to think-”

“Stop it!” George said, holding up a hand. He didn’t have the excess energy to be settling disputes between his grumpy knights. “This isn’t helping anything. Jonny, I agree that the mud is dangerous, and Ben, I know there isn’t much we can do about it.” He sighed. “We have to go slower, and trust that the enemy’s armies will be moving more slowly as well.” He glared at both of them. “Agreed?” The two knights murmured consent, dropping their heads.

George kicked Alban into a trot. It wasn’t ideal for his shoulder, but there was no other option. They would have to be constantly focused, steering around puddles and making sure to keep their seats if the horses tripped again. It would be a long, hard slog to Bath – if they even made it that day.

The rhythmic squelching of each step and the warm heat rising from Alban’s neck were the only constants on the road. The grey clouds were blanketing the surrounding countryside, leaving very little to be seen from George’s vantage point on the horse’s back. They could have travelled five miles or fifteen; it all seemed the same when his usual landmarks had been erased and the sun was but a glimmer.

At some point in the afternoon, the clouds lifted. George allowed himself a smile. He looked at his two companions. Ben was grinning broadly and Jonny seemed slightly less glum – being coated in thick, sticky mud up to the knees probably wasn’t helping.

He turned his attention to the now-visible hills and trees. Squinting into the mist now rising from the fields, he could see a few recognisable settlements. “We’re coming up to Chippenham,” he announced to the others, twisting in the saddle. “I doubt we’ll make it to Bath today – not in these conditions.”

“If we make camp earlier tonight and then set off earlier in the morning…” Ben mused. “How long do you reckon it will take to Bath?”  
“Under three hours,” George said, biting his lip. “It’s not worth pushing on now, though – arriving in the middle of the night and covered in mud won’t inspire much confidence.”

“I say we ride until dusk, then sleep,” Jonny said. “We can set off as soon as possible in the morning, but George here needs enough rest to be able to negotiate.” Plan agreed, they kept riding.

With the sun shining the way ahead of them, the temperature rose along with their spirits. George flexed his shoulder experimentally. Whatever was in the medicine was clearly working. Unfortunately, there was only one dose left. If he took it that evening, he would sleep much better but be uncomfortable throughout the negotiations. If he waited until the next day, he could be up all night in agony.

Eventually, the dusk drew in and Jonny called them to a halt. “We should stop here for the night,” he said, gesturing at a small grove off the road. “There’s shelter, if nothing else.” George felt himself drooping at the very thought of a rest. They dismounted and led the horses to the clump of trees. The ground was squelchy and boggy – a far cry from its earlier good condition.

George tied Alban to a tree at the edge of the grove, loosening his girth while they were stopped. He pulled out the supplies Chris had given them and passed them to the knights. Jonny was sat cross-legged on the floor, his usual solemn expression firmly in place. Ben, on the other hand, appeared to be trying to climb one of the trees.

“What are you doing?” George asked, looking at Jonny for an explanation. The older man merely shrugged and returned to his attention to his food.  
“I’m not sitting on the floor,” Ben said, as if it were obvious. “It is a bit wet up here, but at least it’s not muddy.”  
“You’re already covered in mud from earlier,” George said slowly. “Why do you have to go up there?”

Ben grinned down at him, taking a bite of his bread. George shook his head and eased himself to the floor alongside Jonny. “How are you?” he asked, bumping their knees together. “I know this can’t have been the glorious escapade you were hoping for.” As if to prove his point, a large drop of water rolled down the back of his neck.

The knight looked at him for a moment, unblinking. “The journey itself – you should never expect plain sailing. And if Exeter had not attempted to frustrate the mission, I would have been surprised.”  
“Really?” George asked. What was Jonny insinuating?

“It cannot be a coincidence that Exeter chose the moment at which Middlesex was weakest to strike,” he explained. “They are too powerful. There must be a spy at the court.”  
George’s mouth dropped open. “But how can you know? They have been gaining strength for years – they could not have predicted King Edward’s visit, or the overspending.”

Jonny took another bite of his food. “It is as you say, my- George. They have been preparing for a long time. Keeping watch on the activities of their greatest rival is one of the first steps to take. Any man with military training would know that.”

George pressed a hand to his forehead. His companion’s words made sense, but he didn’t want to believe it. Somebody in the court was betraying them. Someone at the court was betraying them, and it had almost cost him his life. Who could it be? They had all been at Middlesex for at least a year, well before the rumours surrounding Exeter had begun in earnest.

He tried to shake the ominous thoughts away. “You said you trained in Gloucester. Are you family from there, or was it out of choice?”  
Jonny accepted the change of subject with grace. “I trained at the court, that is true. My family, however – my father was a farmer. We lived near Worcester, quite near here. He died when I was young, too young to take over the running of the farm.” He bowed his head, and George chewed his lip. He was sorry for choosing that particular topic of conversation now.

“My mother sent me to train as a knight at Gloucester because they are more willing to accept trainees from the lower classes. My uncle looked after the farm until my younger brother was old enough, and I support them with the large part of my wages.” He smiled stiffly at George. “So, in answer to your question: I am neither from Gloucester, and nor did I choose to train there. However, I am content with the cards life has dealt me.”

They lapsed into silence. George found himself reflecting on his own upbringing. At the time, he had resented the indignity with which his father handed him around the courts of England while Joe and Jacob remained at home, but now he could see it was nothing compared to the hardships of Jonny’s life.

When it came down to it, he could not complain about his husband, either. Owen was caring, in his own way, and loyal. He brought respect to the marriage. Nobody criticised him for marrying below his station; instead the Farrells were questioned as to why they settled for the second son. In the circumstances, Owen had behaved well towards him, George realised. Maybe he was distant at first, but that could only be expected. Why would you want to spend time – at least initially – with the person everyone said was bringing shame to the family?

As he sat there in the mud, clothes drenched and shoulder aching, his only companions two knights and their horses, by the road on the way to Bath – he could recognise, probably for the first time, that the warmth he carried inside him was no longer a burning anger to prove Owen wrong, but a gentle glow of love, wanting to do his husband proud.

The realisation sat with him for a bit, almost a fourth person, while the sun set and the stars pricked into view above them. Ben had descended from the tree and rolled up in his cloak, soon joined by Jonny. George was on the first watch and he was glad of it. He could put off taking the final dose of Hilda’s remedy, and he could continue his reminiscences about his time in Middlesex in their new light.

If they failed in their mission – if he failed – would there be a Middlesex to return to? The threat of Exeter reaching Bath and beating it into submission before they could arrive, then overwhelming any and all defences on the road to the Middle Saxon court. He wrapped himself tighter in his cloak. It didn’t bear thinking about. Really, there was nothing more he could do, save press on with the mission to Bath. Or was there...?

He sat up straight. The moon was not yet a quarter of the way on its nightly journey across the sky, illuminating the leaves on the trees which shook in the stiff breeze. It was still early. If he was able to sneak away with Alban on foot, and then ride hard – he could make it by mid-morning at the latest, even with the dreadful conditions underfoot.

Would it really be in the court’s best interests, though? One of their lords apparently absconding in a time of heightened peril would not help anyone. Then again – it wasn’t like there was a multitude of other options.

He could continue on to Bath in the morning, or head to the royal court at Worcester to throw himself at the mercy of King Edward.

Ben and Jonny would be furious when they woke up to find he had gone, and even more so if he was injured again.

But he would be far away when they realised he had gone, and he would be hailed as a saviour if the plan worked.

He closed his eyes and prayed, hoping for a sign to guide him. Nothing was forthcoming until he opened his eyes again and saw Alban looking at him. The horse whinnied quietly and tossed his head towards the road, almost as if to say _what are you waiting for?_

He checked the surroundings once more. When he was satisfied that no further divine signals remained to be interpreted, he hauled himself to his feet. Like a thief under cover of darkness, he crept away from the snoring knights. Thankfully, Alban seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and remained silent as George untied his reins and tightened the girth. He wouldn’t ride straight away, but it was best to be prepared.

Remembering the remedy for his shoulder, he darted over to Ben’s horse and rummaged through the pack. There was no way he could make the ride to Worcester without it.

In the still of the night, stars the only witnesses, George led Alban away from his companions towards the road. He gulped down Hilda’s medicine before mounting with a soft grunt. Worcester was almost half the distance from Middlesex to Bath again. It would be a challenging ride ahead, but he had no doubts that his little horse would be up to it.

With a final glance over his shoulder at the sleeping forms of Ben and Jonny, George nudged Alban into a canter. King Edward, Worcester, and the salvation of Middlesex awaited – or so he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s all kicking off now...  
> Let me know if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, heads up for a bonus Pride fic on Wednesday - not connected to this ‘verse, but it is to another recent one!


	7. Chapter 7

Ben jolted awake, smacking away the hand on his shoulder. “What the hell?” he hissed. Jonny was crouched next to him. His eyes were wide and Ben could discern more panic on his face than he’d ever seen – even when George had been shot. “What’s going on?”

He blinked a few times, waking up properly. Then it hit him – it was morning. He could see Jonny’s expression because the sun was fully up while the birds were chirping in the trees above them. They’d both missed their watches. George must have fallen asleep and not woken Jonny; there was no way the knight would have nodded off on duty.

He looked around, squinting past Jonny. “Please tell me I’m dreaming,” he said, already resigned to it.  
Jonny shook his head, pulling him upright. His jaw was tight. “He’s gone. He didn’t wake me up last night. There aren’t any signs of a struggle around here, and we would have heard something. I don’t know what happened.”

Ben bit back a curse. It wasn’t Jonny’s fault. Between the two of them, someone should have woken up at the sound of Alban’s hooves. But why-

“Why did he do it?” Jonny asked, handing him the last hunk of bread. “We’re so close to Bath now.” He sighed. “I reckon he got cold feet. Realised his inexperience and decided to take off so nobody could blame him.”

Ben frowned. “George would never do such a thing. He was shot by an enemy archer, and still pressed on. That would have been the moment to give up, if he wanted.”

“But if he didn’t want to carry out the mission to the end – maybe he was the spy?”

“And be shot for the sake of his masters, after riding for several days? Not even Exeter are that callous. No, it must be something else.”

Jonny huffed. “What, then? He can’t be returning to Middlesex: McCall would eviscerate him, and Lord Owen would die of shame. If we’re decided that he is not in the pay of Exeter, where else is left?”

Worry was curling in Ben’s stomach. Something about this whole situation did not sit right with him, and they had no way of knowing what had happened to George. Jonny said there had been no sign of a fight, but he could have been threatened.

What about them, too? They would likely be banished from court for losing a nobleman on a diplomatic mission of great import. George was not so unscrupulous as to leave them in the lurch like this. He could not imagine such behaviour even crossing his friend’s mind.

He heard Jonny – still painstakingly going over the ground surrounding the small grove – yell, and he shot to his feet. He couldn’t lose his other companion as well. Bursting through the wall of trees, he unsheathed his sword, ready for whatever could be awaiting him.

He let out a sigh of relief and slid the sword back into its scabbard. Jonny was stood talking to a messenger from Middlesex – the distinctive red and black tabard was easily recognisable – by the side of the road. The knight was frowning as the messenger spoke. Ben jogged over, sword bashing against his leg with each step.

“What’s happening?” he interrupted, ignoring the way Jonny was twitching beside him.  
“Ealdorman McCall requests that you and Lord George return to Middlesex upon the instant, sir,” the messenger said. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and Ben felt a pang of pity. He looked to be twenty at most.

“What reason does he give?” he asked, trying for a more gentle tone.  
“My lord and his advisors consider the situation too dangerous, sir. They also believe that it is to late for one man to make a difference: the die is already cast.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. His head was whirling and he elbowed Jonny. “Give the man some food, Jonny. He can have the last of George’s ration while we plot our course of action – and what to tell Middlesex.” The penny seemed to drop for the knight and he moved away, beckoning to the messenger to follow with his horse.

He held his head in his hands. Of course, the ealdorman’s decision to recall them had to come the very moment they discovered that they had – _lost_ George, for want of a better word. This would be the end of their careers, without a doubt. Maybe it would be easier to throw in their lot with Exeter now and hope Middlesex would be so utterly destroyed that nobody would remember…

He tugged at his hair once before standing up straight. That was no way to be thinking, he chastised himself. There must be some way to continue the mission, even if he and Jonny were not of sufficiently elevated status to conduct such high-stakes diplomacy themselves. The messenger needed to be dispatched as well. He groaned.

“I gave him the rest of our food,” Jonny said, appearing at his side. “I noticed something interesting while I was doing it. You had the last dose of the medicine for George’s shoulder in your saddlebags, did you not?” Ben nodded, curious to know what the knight was considering. “I was taking the rations out when I saw that it was no longer there. I checked the area for it, but it was not there.”

Clearly realising that the significance of the discovery had not registered with his companion, Jonny continued. “If he was forced to leave by some unknown party, he would not have had time to take it with him. He must have left of his own accord, removing the remedy from your saddlebag before sneaking off while we were asleep.”

Ben winced. The evidence was not pointing in the direction of George’s innocence, that was for sure. “Right. What are we supposed to tell the messenger, then? We cannot go back to court without George, regardless of whether he is a traitor or not.”

Jonny sagged, the stress of the situation showing on his frame. “Concealing his disappearance would do us no good. I think we should inform Middlesex, but continue to search for him here. You never know, he could have been pursuing a thief and fallen from his horse. Unlikely, yes,” he acknowledged at Ben’s incredulous expression, “but we should not condemn him just yet.”

“That’s fine,” Ben said finally. Jonny nodded and walked back to the messenger, who was propped up against a tree with the horses nosing interestedly at the food. He must be an inexperienced messenger, Ben thought, watching him sitting on the floor. With all the rain of the day before, his trousers would be covered in mud.

He froze. _Mud…_

When Jonny returned, the messenger dismissed, Ben caught his arm. “I think I know how we can track George,” he said breathlessly.  
“How?” Jonny said, disbelieving.

Ben walked a few steps, then turned and pointed at the tracks left by his boots. “The mud! It rained so hard yesterday, so all the roads will still be muddy. The horse will leave hoofprints and we can follow them,” he concluded triumphantly.

“What if we pick up on the wrong trail?” Jonny asked with his arms folded across his chest. “This could end up being a wild goose chase, for all we know.”  
Ben shrugged. “That’s always a risk, but if you think about it – we have barely seen anyone, the last few days. All the farmers, the merchants, and everyone else are scared of the threat of war, so they are staying put. I say we look for the tracks of a horse going in the general direction of Bath, and deep ones because they will likely be moving at speed. Then we ask anybody we come across if they saw him.”

Jonny looked doubtful, but Ben could see the moment when he admitted defeat. “Fine,” he said, brushing the crusted mud off his boots. “Let’s go.”

The two knights rode along the open road for around half an hour, tentatively following what looked to be the deepest and most recent set of tracks. Indentations left by a horse of Alban’s size would not usually be that deep, but the speed at which the horse and rider must have been travelling would have made the hooves thud into the soft earth with greater force.

At long last, they saw someone on the road coming towards them. The horse was a bay, to be sure, but the rider was not as sure in the saddle as George – and nor was his shoulder noticeably bandaged. Ben forced his heart to beat more slowly as they neared the stranger.

“Good sir,” Jonny called, reining in his horse. “We are searching for a man on horseback, likely travelling on this road at speed. Have you seen anyone on your journey?”  
The other man stopped too. A broad West Country twang coloured his words and an uncertain smile did not reach his crinkled eyes. “I may have seen him, sir,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Several miles back, there was a rich-looking fellow on a little horse heading north. They looked to be in a right old hurry.”

Ben exchanged excited glances with Jonny. “Do you happen to recall the colours of the saddlecloth? Not a problem if not, of course, but it would help us greatly.”  
The old man stroked his chin. “I have a funny feeling it was striped, sir. Might have been some blue, but it was so spattered in mud and he was going at such a rate I barely had time to see.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben said. George’s striped saddlecloth in the Bath colours – maybe it was less distinctive now they were close to Bath, but it was still a rare sight. _God bless Owen for giving it to him at their wedding.  
_Jonny seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We are most grateful, sir. Thank you kindly, and have a good day.”  
“Not at all, good sirs. I hope you find him soon.” With a cluck of his tongue, the man’s horse moved off at a slow amble.

Ben turned to Jonny. “If the man saw him a few miles away from here, and he’s going that slowly – George could be anywhere by now.”  
Jonny pursed his lips. “Let’s assume he has continued due north. Where would that take him from here?”

Ben squinted into the sun, trying to remember the maps he’d memorised during his training. There were the Cotswolds, of course, but there was nothing there except hills in which to hide. In terms of the larger settlements – Gloucester? Surely George was not foolhardy enough to flee from his friends in Bath into the clutches of an ally of Exeter?

Then it dawned on him. “I think he’s going to-”

“Worcester,” Jonny finished. “If he truly has not abandoned our cause, it is the logical course of action. He may want to appeal to King Edward.” He shrugged. “It would certainly have more of an impact than merely securing Bath as an ally.”  
Ben nodded, tightening his grip on the reins. “I always knew he was a clever one. It doesn’t explain why he did not tell us, but we must pursue him. Do you know the way?”

Jonny nodded once. “We follow this road for fifty miles, then veer off for the last ten.” He worried at his lip. “If he left as soon as we fell asleep last night, he could arrive this afternoon. We have no chance of catching him today if that is the case.”  
“We must do our best,” Ben said steadfastly. “We have a duty to Middlesex, if nothing else.”

Resolves suitably stiffened, they set off for Worcester. Five days of riding had sapped their energy almost to the point of collapse. Somehow, Ben knew that this last day would prove to be the most important one. There was no time – or energy – to waste.

*

Back in Middlesex, Owen was picking at his lunch in his room, lacklustre. The ealdorman’s messenger had been sent out three days ago, so it was to be expected that no further information had arrived. It could not stop him worrying, however.

All things considered, he should be content with the situation as it was. The troop muster was proceeding apace now Jamie had taken responsibility for it from the Vunipolas – _why were they suddenly proving so inept?_ McCall was satisfied with his work, despite the new gaggle of advisors that seemed to be flocking to him at every waking moment.

Still, he could not shake the unease sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach.

George had been out there, riding into the heartland of the enemy, for five days. Owen, meanwhile – he had been sat at his desk, fussing over troop numbers and their inevitable state of unreadiness for battle. Important work, yes, but it paled into insignificance beside the sacrifices his husband was making.

It was not the first time someone close to him had undertaken a risky mission. His uncle Francis had left to negotiate with the Scottish clans some eight years ago and never returned. Then why was this one so different? Why was he constantly twitching, looking out into the courtyard, and harassing the messengers for news?

George had two experienced knights with him, he reassured himself. Alban was fast, he knew first-hand. He sighed, pushing the plate away. That afternoon in the forest seemed so far away. Only a few weeks ago, everything was normal, and now – who knew when that carefree state would return?

He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to allow his fears to boil over. There was nothing he could do but sit tight and wait, being as useful to the court as McCall determined.

But-

The new advisors had essentially taken over his role, leaving him free to deliberate over trivialities like the potential composition of the Middle Saxon troops. It was hardly essential work. One of the councillors would jump at the opportunity to take it on, he thought sourly.

Would he not be more useful out in the field? He arguably had a greater diplomatic record than his husband’s impressive career, and his family connections carried more weight. He could emphasise Middlesex’s commitment to the London Irish on his way – _George’s last known location_ , a treacherous voice reminded him – and then set out to find his husband. And the knights, of course.

He stood up, suddenly energised. The ealdorman had always been sympathetic to his suggestions, and he could hardly fail to allow him to recover his beloved husband, an asset to the court. He snatched up a slice of bread from his plate and shoved it into his mouth. Then he gathered up a few spare clothes – at the speed he was intending to travel, there would not be many nights spent out in the open.

Stuffing everything into a bag, he left the bedroom. He wouldn’t miss it. George’s absence had stripped it of any warmth it once had.

He reached the door of the great hall. A few voices were murmuring lowly inside, but the gaggle seemed to be absent for once. Knocking once, he entered.

“My lord,” he said, bowing his head. McCall was sat at the far end of the table, poring over some maps with Jamie. “May I speak with you for a moment?”  
The ealdorman gestured at the chair opposite him. “Be my guest. Jamie, would you-?” The other nobleman was already on his feet, leaning across the table to clap Owen on the shoulder before leaving the room.

“What’s this about?” McCall asked, once Owen had sat down. “I thought everything was in order.” He grimaced. “Aside from the troop musters, but I’ve spoken to Billy and Mako about that.”  
Owen shared his displeased look. “Everything is in order, sir, that’s why I was wondering…” He steeled himself. This would be the first time he had questioned the ealdorman’s orders, whether directly or indirectly, in all their years together.

“Would it be possible for me to travel to Reading and then on towards Bath? I believe it would be beneficial for the court to have the alliance with the Irish firmly consolidated, and I have the skills to recover George and the knights. As you said, they are too valuable to lose. Me, on the other hand – my current tasks could easily be delegated.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He was supposed to be convincing McCall, not annoying him.

“You’re telling me that you want to increase the jeopardy the court faces by sending another noble out there? And never mind Middlesex – what about your family? They could recover from the loss of Lord George, but you are the eldest son.” McCall folded his arms and Owen felt his chance slipping away.

“But, sir – George _is_ my family,” he said, a desperate edge bleeding into his tone, surprising even him. “I cannot allow him to run such risks while I remain at court, twiddling my thumbs over nothing of consequence.”

He surrendered the last shreds of his dignity. Resorting to begging was not his usual style, but needs must. “Please, my lord, have I not been a loyal servant? Have I not done everything you have asked of me? Could this not be the time for you to assist me, for once?” He scrunched up his hands into balls under the table, hoping and praying that the ealdorman would not be offended at such impertinence.

He needed to find George. Didn’t want to – well, of course he wanted to – but he _needed_ to. If his husband were to be taken prisoner and _died_ – Owen crossed himself hastily – without knowing how much he was loved, he could never forgive himself.

McCall seemed to be deliberating. “How am I supposed to replace you?” he said, frowning. “I know your assignments at present are not the most taxing, but when push comes to shove, I would rather have your experience than all the wittering of the advisors.”

Owen permitted himself a wry grin. “My lord, if all goes well, George and I will secure the alliance of Bath and return within the week. Hopefully nothing will change dramatically in that time, but you have other trusted noblemen to help you. Lord Jamie, Lord Elliot…” He paused. “The Vunipolas…”

McCall sighed, twisting his hands together. “You speak convincingly. Please implore the men you just named to continue to serve diligently before your departure, and find a knight willing to accompany you. Other than that, you are free to go.”

Owen’s heart soared. This was by far the most dangerous undertaking of his life, but he was bubbling with relief. “Thank you, my lord. I will do so.”  
The ealdorman dismissed him with a tired wave of the hand. “Tell Jamie and Elliot to come and see me, please.”

Owen nodded quickly and left the room, smiling broadly. For the first time in five days, he had a purpose. Talk to Jamie, Elliot, and the Vunipolas – arrange provisions and his horse – go and find George. Not even the looming danger of Exeter could dampen his mood.

He checked the kitchens first, to see if Elliot was in his domain. The younger noble was not, so he requested a packet of food to be made up and went to the rooms he and Jamie shared.

He rapped on the door. The voices inside ceased for a moment before the door swung open. “Owen?” Jamie asked breathlessly.  
Owen raised his eyebrows at the other man’s rumpled state. “Can I come in?”  
“Just a second!” Elliot called from inside, and Jamie glanced over his shoulder.  
“You can come in now,” he said after an awkward few seconds.

Owen winked at Elliot as he came in, the younger man’s shirt having clearly been tucked into his breeches in a hurry. “I’m not staying long, don’t worry,” he said, making sure to keep away from any and all furniture. Who knew what the two men had been doing, and where? “I wanted to let you know – I’m going to look for George. McCall said I can leave right away.”

Jamie’s mouth dropped open, at odds with the flush of his cheeks. “You’re doing what? Owen, you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”  
“I think you’ll find I can,” Owen argued. “I can’t sit around here doing nothing all day. At the very least I’ll be able to redouble our commitment to the London Irish.”

Jamie looked like he was about to respond when Elliot jumped in. “I think it’s a good idea,” he said softly. He looked at his husband. “I’d do the same for you, if you were the one out there.”  
Jamie slumped, defeated. “Fine. I wish you luck, my friend. Stay safe and come home soon.”

Owen accepted their handshakes with a smile before leaving them to get on with whatever he had interrupted. Maybe when he and George returned- He shook his head fiercely. This was not the time to be thinking about it. They needed to have a solid conversation first – and that was after Owen had found him, wherever he was.

He walked through the winding corridors of the main building complex. He had only to inform the Vunipolas of his departure, collect his rations, and then he could be away. He halted outside the brothers’ rooms. As lower members of the court, they were not afforded the luxury of separate bedrooms – a thought which brought him perverse pleasure.

“Billy? Mako?” he called through the door.  
There was a rustling sound and the door was wrenched open. “Lord Owen,” Billy said with a smile. It would have been more convincing if his eyes were not blown wide and Mako was not standing stiffly behind him.

“I have news,” Owen said, choosing to overlook the odd behaviour of the brothers. “May I come in for a moment?” Billy held open the door for him to enter, panic flaring in his eyes for a second.

“What does this concern?” Mako asked, hands behind his back. “Nothing is wrong, I trust?”  
“Not exactly.” Owen moved to lean against the desk, brushing a pile of papers aside to make space. “Merely that, in light of current events, the ealdorman and I have seen fit to authorise a mission to recover Lord George. I will be leading it, along with one of the knights.”

He didn’t miss how Billy’s eyes flicked to Mako before he replied. “Will that not be most dangerous?” he said. “After all, losing one nobleman would be tragedy enough.”  
“Nobody said anything about losing George,” Owen said firmly. Somehow the merchant always knew how to put him on edge. “It is but a precaution, via the camp of the London Irish.”

“Then we wish you well,” Mako said. Owen extended his hand to shake, and the other man instinctively moved to take it – dropping the papers he had been concealing on the floor.

Owen knelt to pick them up on instinct. He could not stop himself from scanning the first lines of the sheet that landed on top.

_A missive from Ealdorman Mark McCall, with the blessings of the Almighty, regarding the urgent gathering of troops from your village._

He dropped it in shock, looking up at Billy and Mako with his mouth hanging open. “Are these – the orders to muster troops? Is this why it was taking so long – because you never sent them?”

The other men seemed equally lost for words. “I – it’s not-” Billy stuttered. “Those are copies, my lord, in case the first round of messages did not achieve the desired results.”  
Owen frowned. “Then why are they still in your possession? It was evident days ago that the muster was not moving fast enough.”

His anger growing, he got to his feet, standing nose-to-nose with Billy. “Are you sabotaging our preparations for war? Is that why you encouraged me to let George go almost alone?” He shook the papers in his face. “I do not have time to deal with this myself, but I will pass the matter into the hands of Lord Jamie. You will need a better explanation than the one you just gave me to avoid punishment.”

The two merchants stood stock-still, blood drained from their faces. Mako opened his mouth to speak, and Owen held up an imperious hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I imagine you will have been dealt with by the time I return.”

Hands shaking, he left the room. Saboteurs, in the Middle Saxon court? And the Vunipolas, too? It was almost unbelievable. He saw Jamie crossing the courtyard as he swept past a window, and ducked out of the corridor to intercept him.

“Jamie,” he said urgently, pressing the papers into his friend’s hands, “I have grounds to believe that the Vunipola brothers have been sabotaging the troop muster. I cannot elaborate further now, but all the evidence you need is in those documents.”  
Jamie nodded and pulled Owen into a short embrace. “Thank you, Owen. I hope to see you and George soon.”

Owen flashed a grateful smile at his friend and rushed on. Aaron was waiting for him, fully saddled, in the stable yard, with one of the younger knights already mounted beside him. He took the reins from the groom, attached his pack to the back of the saddle, and swung himself up onto the horse’s back.

When George had ridden away from the safety of the court, he had felt only worry in his heart. Now he doing the same himself, it was excitement for what was to come and a deep yearning to see his husband again which made a home inside him.

Nodding at the knight beside him, he kicked Aaron into a canter. He was going to find George if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and have a good week.


	8. Chapter 8

A few hours later, George and Alban clattered into the main courtyard at Worcester. George was clinging on to the front of the saddle, his shoulder screaming and his head swimming with pain. It was still early afternoon – they had made good time. But at what cost?

George forced himself upright in the saddle. With the presence of the royal household, the court was swarming with knights, servants, and all manner of other attendants. He needed to find his way to King Edward as soon as possible, lest he be shown the way to a prison cell instead.

A groom was already approaching cautiously. George nodded at him to take the reins before slumping off the horse, staggering as his legs nearly folded on impact. The mad dash through the countryside had eaten away all the benefits gained from the night at Chris’s house, and then some. He was exhausted.

Three men were advancing towards him – knights, from their build and the broadswords strapped to their waists. “Who are you, and what is your purpose here?” the one in the middle called.  
George’s voice cracked as he tried to answer. “I am Lord George Ford, bringing an urgent message for the king from the court of Middlesex, sirs.” _In for a penny, in for a pound._ The court would surely endorse his actions once they heard about them, he hoped.

“Do you have proof of this?” the knight asked, stepping closer and resting his hand on the sword. “Your saddlecloth speaks to you being a member of the court of Bath, not Middlesex.”

George patted himself down, then cast a despairing glance at the empty saddlebags on Alban’s back. “I have only this ring,” he said finally, sliding it from his finger to show to the knights. He was aware of a crowd gathering around them, and he raised his voice with the last of his strength. “It was given to me by my husband at our wedding. He is Lord Owen Farrell, right-hand-man of Ealdorman McCall. As you can see, the red and black of Middlesex is shown in the stone.”

The knights conferred among themselves for a long minute. George let himself lean against his horse as he waited. If he had come all this way, made so many sacrifices – his shoulder throbbed as a reminder – only to be rejected by this posse of knights…

“We will ask the king if he wishes to grant you an audience,” the knight said loftily. “One of the servants will bring you some food. We will return when there is news.” With that, the three men walked away.

George flopped to the ground, a groan torn from his lips as his shoulder jolted. The medicine had worked for the first hours of his wild ride, but the last forty miles had been a growing agony. His eyes were slipping shut. He could surely rest for a few moments before the knights returned-

He opened his eyes to someone cupping his head and carefully dribbling water into his mouth. “What?” he mumbled, pushing away the drink. “What’s happening?”  
“Do not worry,” the person said. George blinked hard to force his eyes to focus, and realised it was one of the knights from before. “You passed out – I assume from exhaustion. The king is willing to see you when you are ready.”

George struggled to his feet, biting down hard on his lower lip to prevent another shameful sound emerging. “I am ready now,” he said, steadying himself against Alban’s flank. “May we go? It is a matter of great import.”

The knight looked like he wanted to disagree, but looped an arm around his waist to keep him upright while they walked slowly – too slowly, did he not realise the danger? – to where the king presumably was. During the ride, George had prepared any number of impassioned speeches to sway the king to his cause. Now, though, he could barely form a sentence, let alone a persuasive speech.

He could not fall at the final hurdle. He would not.

The knight paused outside the entrance of the hall. “Are you sure?” he asked again. “The king would understand if you were to rest for a while before you speak to him.”  
George shook his head. “I must speak with him now,” he got out through gritted teeth. Shrugging, the knight knocked on the door and led George inside.

“Sir Paul Gustard presenting Lord George Ford of Middlesex, sir,” the knight boomed officiously. He gave George a push in the small of his back to propel him forwards. George almost stumbled but caught himself just in time.

“Your majesty,” he said, dropping wearily to one knee, left arm clasping his right in place. In front of the king was absolutely not the place to start crying out in pain.  
“Rise,” the king instructed. George inhaled deeply and pushed himself upright again. “Tell me, Lord George, why are you here? I thought all the Middle Saxon nobles would be at court preparing for war.”

George forced himself to meet King Edward’s gaze, trying to ignore the noblemen gathered around him. “My lord, it is a complicated story, and I fear there is not enough time to tell it. Suffice to say, Ealdorman McCall sent me to make an alliance with Bath in the face of the threat from Exeter. As my companions and I rode on, we heard of the advances Exeter was making.” He dug his fingernails into the palm of his left hand. “I decided it was more worthwhile coming to you and begging for assistance than continuing to Bath; they might have allied with Exeter by the time we reached the court.”

Edward made a considering noise. “Go on,” he murmured.  
“Sir, in light of your singular power and might throughout all England, I thought it prudent to come to you and seek your assistance in the matter of the growing tensions between Exeter and my own court.”  
“And quite why would I do that? A measure of competition between courts is healthy; it keeps the troops prepared in case of an invasion by a foreign power.”

George sighed in frustration. This was always going to be the sticking point. The king was notorious for his hands-off approach to his kingdom. He would only intervene if the situation was threatening the security of the whole realm – so it was George’s job to convince him of that.

“Sir, as a member of the court of Middlesex and as someone with connections to several of the courts in this area – I do not think a conflict on this scale will be beneficial to England in the short or the long term.” He pushed on, the blood pounding in his ears muffling the shocked murmurs of the king’s courtiers.

“The skirmishes between local courts in past years may have kept them in better readiness, but this is more than that. It is the two biggest powers mobilising all their troops and their alliances to the point at which the greater part of the country will be fighting.”

George stopped and caught his breath. The king was fading in and out of focus, but even so he could see a frown on his face. “Middlesex has acted as a balance to Exeter for the best part of a decade, sir. If Middlesex falls, Exeter will have free rein to rampage through the country, amassing huge support.”

He steeled himself. “It is possible that Ealdorman Baxter would have the power to challenge you, sir. If I, a lowly nobleman, have come to this conclusion, then there can be no doubt that other nations have too – France, Italy…”

He bowed his head in an attempt to make up for his impertinent speech. The courtiers were whispering among themselves like trees in the wind, but the king himself was silent. George prayed that he would be won round by his arguments, fiddling with his ring anxiously.

After a long minute, King Edward cleared his throat. George held his breath. “You speak well,” he said, words coloured with an unfamiliar twang. “But how can I know that you are not agitating to the advantage of your court? How can I take your words in good faith?”

George’s heart sank. “Sir, I – I-” He floundered, lost for words. “Think of the damage already caused by Exeter to the monasteries and religious houses, those most peaceable of institutions. Scores of innocents have been slaughtered already at the hands of these men. It is likely that they are only beginning their campaign and the bloodshed will increase.”

He took a deep breath. “As I said – a foreign power cannot fail to take advantage of the weakened state of your two most powerful courts. It could prove the end for England as an independent nation.”

When he tentatively looked up, some of the nobles were nodding. The king seemed less irritated and more concerned, brow creased. “I take your point,” he said at last. “I will send some of my men as envoys to halt Exeter’s machinations. This cannot go on.”

George allowed a tiny smile to grow on his face while the king issued his orders to two knights – the two who had first met him in the courtyard with Gustard, he realised belatedly.

That was it, then. Middlesex was saved. He was light-headed with relief. Somehow the diplomatic prowess Owen had so lauded had appeared when it was most needed, almost by way of divine intervention. He sent up a prayer of heartfelt thanks. Now the burden of impending doom had been lifted from his shoulders, he could almost float.

With a start, he came back to himself. The king was addressing him. “I am grateful to you for bringing this matter to my attention,” he said, a hint of a smile and none of the earlier suspicion on his face.

“Not at all, sir,” George replied, remembering common courtesy despite his exhaustion. “My court and I are eternally thankful for your wise judgement.” He decided to ease himself down on to one knee, just to complete the spectacle. His knees protested as he knelt, and all of a sudden there was a rush of blood to his head, and-

He came to lying in a soft bed, morning sun pouring in through the window. He blinked. The scratchy feeling of crusted sweat, mud, and blood was gone. Coupled with the relief from earlier – yesterday? – the sensation was akin to lying on a cloud.

He shifted slightly, checking his body was still functioning. A sting of pain raced through his shoulder, and he craned his neck to examine the wound. It was neatly bandaged, and a calming white colour instead of the customary ugly red. All in all, whatever had happened to him was probably the best thing of the past week.

Thirst picked at his throat. Looking around the room, he saw that a jug of water and a cup had been left by the bed, and he took a drink gratefully. Clearly he had not been taken prisoner – who would treat a prisoner like this, even one they were holding to ransom?

Footsteps echoed outside the door to the room. He tensed. Whoever had brought him here was coming closer. They must be friend, not foe – surely?

The door creaked open.

His jaw dropped. “Ben? Jonny? What’s going on?”

The two knights entered the room, broad smiles adorning both their faces. “It’s good to see you, Georgie,” Ben said, clapping him on his good shoulder.  
“Yeah, you gave us a scare with that vanishing act of yours,” Jonny added. He looked more relaxed than since they’d left Middlesex.

“I’m sorry,” George said immediately. “It’s just – I couldn’t tell you because I was deviating from the mission, and I didn’t want you to be blamed if I was caught or anything like that.” Confusion crept into his mind again. “But – where are we? The last thing I remember is – oh _no_.” He covered his face with his hands.

“Oh yes,” Ben chirped. “By all accounts, you gave a magnificent speech about why the king should intervene and stop Exeter, and then keeled over.”  
“He has done it, though? He was true to his word?” George asked anxiously, gripping the sheets.

“All is well,” Jonny smiled. “After your little escapade, we didn’t know what to think, but luckily we were able to pick up your trail. We arrived here a few hours ago to hear that two of King Edward’s most senior knights have been dispatched to Exeter to have a firm word with Baxter.”  
George sank back against the pillow. “Thank God,” he murmured fervently.

Ben ruffled his hair. “We’re very proud of you, Georgie. Owen is going to explode with pride when he hears.”  
George was on the brink of sleep again when he remembered. “We need to send a message to Middlesex,” he slurred. “They need to know.”

“Don’t worry,” Jonny said soothingly. “You rest. We can handle this while you sleep. We have much to talk about, but it can wait.” Taking the usually surly knight’s words as permission, George allowed himself to sink into unconsciousness once more.

The second time he surfaced, it was closer to evening and he was instantly more awake. Ben and Jonny were sat at the end of his bed, playing some kind of betting game with a pair of dice. Somehow Ben won the round, and Jonny pushed at his shoulder with a low growl. George smiled. There was none of the simmering tension left in the knight’s frame; he was back to his usual relaxed self.

Ben was in the middle of a hushed complaint about Jonny cheating when he saw George watching them. “Good evening,” he said, shuffling up the bed. “How are you feeling?”  
“Surprisingly well,” he said, lowering and raising his right arm to prove the point. “How are you two?”

Jonny was stood by Ben, seemingly reluctant to sit on the bed in such a familiar way. “We have sent a messenger to Middlesex, as you requested earlier. What we were going to tell you this morning-”  
“Before you fell asleep like a baby,” Ben interjected.  
“-was that we met a messenger from court on the road yesterday, just after we had discovered you were missing,” Jonny continued, determined to maintain his dignified air.

“What did he say?” George asked with interest. He pushed himself into a sitting position.  
“McCall requested that you return to Middlesex immediately. The message was of course a few days old by the time we received it, but the substance still stood.”  
“You can imagine the state we were in,” Ben mock-frowned. “The ealdorman himself telling you to come back, and you’d only gone and run off!”

George opened his mouth to defend himself but Jonny got there first. “We know, George, we know. It has all worked out in the end. We sent the messenger back to tell them we had lost you, and that Owen should travel to Bath himself to fulfil the mission.”

George cursed. “You didn’t, did you? I was supposed to be proving to him that I can handle myself and I have some worth, and now he probably thinks I’m even more stupid than before.”  
Resting a hand on his shoulder, Ben said softly, “I promise you he doesn’t think that, Georgie. You may not have noticed how he looks at you, but pretty much everyone else did.”

George carried on, blithely ignoring Ben’s comment. “And now he’s going to be in danger too. This was meant to be using the expendable one for the risky mission, and you’ve decided to make him endanger his life as well!”

Jonny huffed and folded his arms. “Firstly,” he started gruffly, “you are not expendable. Secondly, I doubt the messenger will arrive in time for him to get anywhere close to Bath before we intercept him on our way back.”

Ben groaned. “If you’ve finished your little tantrum, we have some more important news. You’ll actually like this, I promise.” George sighed but allowed him to speak. “The king wants to see you for an audience tonight!” Ben said, sharing a proud look with Jonny. “Rumour has it that he wants to reward you for your bravery.”

George pursed his lips. Bravery? It was more like foolhardiness, risking the wellbeing of his horse and his companions. No sane man would praise that kind of behaviour. He caught himself. Criticising King Edward was wrong, so there must have been something valuable in his actions. Really, though?

“When?” he asked finally. For all that he felt more alert than that morning, his eyes were still heavy and his legs were like lead after so many hours in the saddle.  
“Dinner will be brought to us here,” Jonny said, “and then someone will come to collect you. It should not take long.” George nodded, resigning himself to his fate.

“While you were sleeping, Jonny and I agreed that we should spend the night here and begin the return journey to Middlesex tomorrow,” Ben added. “We could all do with the rest, and another night should ensure that Exeter’s forces have been stood down, for the most part.

“That’s fine.” The prospect of the long ride back to Middlesex from Worcester was not one that George relished, but it had to be done. The sooner they returned, the sooner he would see Owen.

Time slipped by. The three men gorged themselves on the rich food of the royal court, all the better after days mostly subsisting on cold rations from Elliot and Chris. Then there was an imperious knock on the door, and nerves started twisting in George’s gut.

“Lord George?” a man called.  
“Yes, come in,” he said, trying not to let his voice quaver too much. His speech yesterday had clearly robbed him of all eloquence for the foreseeable future.

The tall knight from the previous day ducked into the room – Gustard, George recalled hazily. “It is good to see you looking better,” Gustard said with a hint of a grin.  
“His majesty’s hospitality has aided the change,” George replied, conscious of Ben and Jonny watching on.  
“Are you prepared for the audience?” the knight asked.  
“Of course.” George swung his legs out of the bed, pushing through the dizzying feeling of being upright once more. “Lead the way.”

On unsteady legs, George traipsed after the knight. Even with almost a full day asleep or in bed, he was trembling like a leaf after five minutes’ walking. “Lord George Ford of Middlesex,” Gustard announced, triggering a sense of déjà vu. He had to run his fingers across his clean shirt and trousers to reassure himself that, yes, he had already done his duty and convinced the king to stop the war.

“Come forward, George,” the king said. The hostile muttering of the advisors had vanished overnight; now they were nothing but smiles.  
“Sir,” he murmured, attempting to bow without humiliating himself further.

“I realise I was too harsh on you yesterday,” King Edward said firmly. “I would like to reward you for your timely and necessary efforts. My advisors tell me your family has lands in the north, correct?” George could only nod. “Then it would be my pleasure to grant you ownership in perpetuity of a royal estate adjoining the existing Ford land.”

The king waved forward a scribe, who was carrying a pen and an elaborate document George immediately recognised as a charter. “Now I understand you are tired from your journey, and your injury does not allow for the usual ceremony of reading aloud the charter. If you accept this land, please sign where the scribe indicates.”

Feeling as if he were in a dream, George took the pen and inked his name on the parchment. The king was first on the witness list, followed by all the noble advisors – and George. It was the most surreal moment of his life. He handed back the pen, looking to the king for further direction.

“It only remains for me to thank you once again,” King Edward said, clearly recognising the growing fatigue on George’s face. “You have done your court and the kingdom a great service, for which we are all eternally grateful.” George bowed once more and retreated into the safety and anonymity of the corridor outside.

“Congratulations,” Gustard said, following him out. “When the scriptorium has checked over the charter for the final time, I will bring it to your room for you to keep.”  
“Thank you,” George whispered. All his energy was focused towards making it back to his bed. He could not imagine being able to walk one pace further than absolutely necessary. His eyes were almost half-closed as he stumbled along behind Gustard.

At long last, they reached his room. The knight bid him farewell and closed the door with a twinkle in his eye, suppressing a grin as George flopped on to the bed. He tugged his boots off and was asleep in seconds.

When he finally roused himself the next morning, the sun was already a good way towards its zenith. George gathered his possessions and went in search of Ben and Jonny, stomach growling.

He did not have to look far: the knights were sprawled most indecorously in the corridor outside his room, eating their way through several plates of food. “George!” Ben cheered, thrusting a plate of cured meat at him. “We thought you’d never wake up.” Jonny merely smiled and patted the floor next to him. George grinned back and accepted, knowing that Jonny was showing his happiness in his own way.

“Are we setting off after this?” he asked through a mouthful of bread. In all honesty, he could have stayed right there, eating and relaxing, for another fortnight.  
“It would be best,” Jonny said apologetically. “The messenger we met two days ago will arrive in Middlesex soon, and they will begin to worry.” _And Owen will start riding into needless danger_ , George filled in.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It is what must be done.” A thought occurred to him, making him huff out a laugh. In answer to the knights’ curious looks, he said, “I was just thinking how, a few weeks ago, I would have given anything to escape the court. Now, I would like nothing more than to be there at once, avoiding all the travel and the excitement.”

Ben snorted. “If you want excitement, mate, you should have become a knight. Hours of training in the full sun, covered in chainmail.”  
“Nothing beats it,” Jonny finished sarcastically. George grinned. He hadn’t been this relaxed in – well, probably years.

They worked their way slowly through the rest of the piles of food, George eating ravenously. Then they said their goodbyes to the nobles they encountered on the way – George was particularly sad to be leaving Gustard; he had been courteous to a fault.

A few stablehands led their horses out into the yard for them. George’s heart leapt at the sight of Alban, his trusty mount. Clearly, the king had expressed his gratitude in ways beyond the land grant – all their tack was gleaming like new. He rubbed his horse’s nose with a smile, and took the reins from the groom.

Gazing around the Worcester court for the final time, George smiled to himself. It had been an adventure, but he was glad to be returning home. He only hoped Owen would be there waiting for him.


	9. Chapter 9

Four days later, the epic journey was drawing to a close. Even with the additional rest afforded to him at Worcester, riding another hundred miles back home – albeit at a much slower pace than the way there – was pushing George to his limits. They were able to stay in houses along the road and his wound was cleaned and dressed each day, but nothing was able to compare to the rest he would have when they arrived in Middlesex at long last.

His body was aching for the return, but his mind was more fearful. As they cantered the final few miles towards the court, following the path of his usual afternoon ride to the forest, something akin to panic was churning in his stomach. He’d undertaken this mission in order to protect Middlesex, to be sure, but he had also wanted desperately to prove his worth to the court. Had he done enough?

The low buildings of the Middle Saxon court rose up before him as the horses mounted the final crest before crossing into the valley spread out in front of them. The two knights were having a shouted conversation, sitting easily in their saddles and laughing in the summer sun. They were carefree: their mission had been a success.

He tightened his grip on the reins, fighting against the urge to slow Alban to a trot, delaying their arrival by a few precious minutes. The threat to Middlesex had ended, he could claim that much, although most of the actual action had been taken by the king and his senior knights. Instead, George had disobeyed the ealdorman’s explicit orders and likely caused his husband to have to go out into danger and look for him.

He twisted around in the saddle, compulsively checking behind for any tell-tale clouds of dust which would reveal the presence of another horse and rider – maybe even Owen. But, as over the past few days, there was no sign of him. George sighed heavily and prayed again, for the hundredth time that afternoon.

It was his failing that had endangered his husband, who had done nothing to deserve it. His failing, that caused his companions a world of stress. He could not ask for Owen’s return for himself, only for the sake of his husband.

While he ruminated on the unfair situation that had befallen his husband, hunched and ashamed, Alban continued to canter under him. Eventually all three horses drew to a halt in the outer courtyard of Middlesex. George’s legs were trembling. Owen could still be here – they could see each other – he could confess-

Nobody came running round the corner to greet him as he dropped to the ground, and his heart sank. His husband was not here. The other nobles continued not to care about him, the expendable one. He felt himself shrinking like a wounded animal into its den. All this for nothing.

No, not nothing, he reminded himself. Middlesex was still standing. He could still retreat to his rooms, back into the familiar obscurity of his desk. The harvest documentation was probably still there waiting for him. The conquering hero would not be hailed, but at least he would be permitted to resume his previous, safely pointless, occupation.

Jonny brushed past him with a stable boy in tow, and George blinked out of his spiral. Moping was improper; he would bear this just as he had done the previous years – like a man. He straightened his back as far as possible and led Alban over to his stable, ignoring the attentions of yet another groom.

He methodically untacked his horse, wiping down the saddle and bridle briefly before beginning to groom Alban. This was his safe space, a much-needed moment to collect himself before anything further could happen. He was able to complete most of the grooming, admitting defeat at picking out his hooves. He called over one of the loitering stable boys and put him to work, watching to ensure it was done properly. It was the least he could do after Alban’s efforts over the last week and a half.

When the groom had finished and George was murmuring praise into Alban’s ear, good arm slung around his warm neck, Ben popped up to shatter the silence. “Georgie,” he chirped, “Jonny says McCall wants to see you as soon as possible.”

George stepped away from his horse with a sigh. “Should I not change? I hardly think the ealdorman would approve.”  
“Right away, he said.” Jonny appeared behind the other knight, leaving George wondering if he was more tired than he thought, the way seconds were disappearing before him.

He nodded in acquiescence and ducked out of the stable to follow the other men. Staring at the backs of their heads in front of him, he had the strange rocking sensation of still being astride Alban, as he had for so many hours recently.

The three men, dusty and worn, retraced the familiar steps to the great hall. George clenched his fists, ignoring the flash of pain in his shoulder. The old anxiety was back, tearing through the veil of tiredness to fill up his throat until it felt like it was about to pour out of his mouth. He didn’t want to see the ealdorman, see the shame on the faces of Elliot and Jamie and Mako and Billy. He didn’t want to – he couldn’t.

“Come on, George,” Jonny said softly while Ben held open the door. He extended his hand. Trying to hide the tremors running through him, George took it. He let Jonny tug him to the end of the table. His eyes were fixed on the floor but he could imagine the burning glares of McCall and everyone else ripping through him. Everyone else – but Owen.

What he would do for his husband to be with him now, to be the one holding his hand in support instead of Jonny, just like at the war council all those days and aeons ago. He closed his eyes. The more important question – what had he _not_ done to allow Owen to be by his side? Where to begin, he thought grimly, pressing his lips together.

“Lord George.” McCall’s voice broke through his self-flagellation. “The knights Sir Ben and Sir Jonny have just informed me of your conduct on this mission. When we at court received their message two days ago reporting your flight, there was – naturally – concern and doubt in all our minds.”

He bit his lip. _It was a risk, but it paid off,_ he protested in his mind.

“However, hearing their update on the unfolding of events today, I believe we owe you a debt of gratitude.”

George raised his head, clutching on to Jonny’s fingers. Jamie was sat to the ealdorman’s left, smiling slightly, while Elliot was beaming a toothy grin at him. He flicked his eyes to McCall’s right, hope punctured on seeing the empty chair. The two merchants were also absent, but he could not bring himself to think on it further. McCall was still speaking.

“While you deviated from my instructions, I commend you for your quick thinking. Reacting to the situation in such a manner must have required no small amount of courage, particularly while wounded.”

George forced himself to let go of Jonny’s hand, standing up straighter.

“By all accounts, your actions have almost single-handedly prevented war with Exeter.” The ealdorman’s face grew serious. “However, you will have noticed the absence of your husband, Lord Owen.”

George nodded quickly, emotion of all kinds flooding his body. “Do you know where he – when – what-”  
McCall shook his head. George couldn’t miss the way Jamie tensed, and Elliot briefly covered his hand with his own. “He left the court a week ago. His course was first for Reading and the London Irish, then on to Bath. We have heard nothing since, but that is hardly surprising.” He laughed awkwardly. “After all, we did not hear from _you_ in that time either.”

George shuffled his feet. “Look,” McCall said, clearly sensing the change in the mood, “you will be the first to be notified on the return of your husband. Perhaps some celebrations will be in order when that happy day comes... Anyway, I think Jamie and Elliot would like to talk to you.” He nodded at the two men, who stood up and left the room. George followed obediently, smiling reassuringly at Ben and Jonny as he went, leaving them alone with the ealdorman.

“George!” Elliot burst out as soon as the door swung closed behind him, grabbing him in a hug.  
George let out a yelp of pain and pushed him off, gesturing at his shoulder. “Careful,” he grunted, probing the site with a grimace. “Arrow, remember?”  
“God, sorry,” Elliot winced, looping an arm around his waist instead.

“It’s good to see you,” Jamie said, watching his husband hanging off the smaller man with a half-relaxed, half-awkward smile. “Elliot was worried.”  
The man in question coughed. “ _We_ were worried,” he corrected with none of Jamie’s reserve. “The messages we were receiving were growing worse with every hour, and then the Vunipolas…”

“Perhaps we should go to our rooms, dear,” Jamie cut in. “This is not a conversation for a corridor.” Elliot and George slowly made their way there while Jamie hurried to the kitchens for some food for George.

“What happened with the Vunipolas, then?” George asked, sinking into the chair by the desk with a relieved sigh. “I noticed they were not at the meeting just now.”  
Elliot looked up at his husband from where he was cuddled into his side on the bed. “Do you want to tell it, or shall I?” he asked. The fondness in his tone made George’s heart ache.  
“Go on, love,” Jamie said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Elliot’s head.

“I don’t know if you noticed at all before you left, but the Vunipolas were acting – not suspiciously as such, but differently to how you would expect. The troop musters were going strangely slowly, they had no good reason for it… That kind of thing.” Elliot let Jamie pick up the thread of the story.

“Just when Owen was about to leave, he turned up outside our room saying that they had deliberately sabotaged the muster. Of course, we went to investigate straight away,” Jamie said, frowning at the memory. “They were burning McCall’s orders – they had never sent them out. Luckily, McCall had already transferred the duty to me, so the troops were gathering, if slightly delayed.”

“Then I went to tell the ealdorman while Jamie made sure that they could not escape,” Elliot continued. “Once McCall was involved, they confessed everything.” A look of disgust came over his usually sunny face. “The whole time they were at court, they were in the pay of Exeter. They were mercenaries – spies.”

George’s jaw dropped. He’d never trusted the two merchants, but – of course – nobody would take his word next to Owen’s near-absolute faith in their loyalty. But – if the Vunipolas were spying for Exeter and informing on the activities of Middlesex – and Jonny suspected the would-be assassin of having prior knowledge of their movements-

 _The Vunipolas would have been happy to have him dead._ The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine. “What’s happened to them now?” he asked. He couldn’t tell if the shaking of his hands was due to anger or fear. And Owen-

He stopped himself, forced himself to take a breath. They would not have had time to send a message out about his husband’s departure if they had been apprehended soon after.

“McCall has imprisoned them, at least until the time of the next shire court,” Jamie said steadily. “There is a guard every hour of the day. They cannot escape – do not worry.”

George’s hand had come up almost without him knowing to trace the edges of his wound. That arrow – it might as well have been shot by Billy or Mako themselves. He shuddered. Without Ben, and Jonny, and Chris and Hilda, he could well have died from blood loss or infection. He never wanted to see the Vunipolas again.

“Hug?” Elliot offered, seeing the mix of his emotions flitting across his friend’s face.  
“Please,” George murmured. He let himself drop onto the bed beside Elliot, still not certain where he stood with Jamie. The older man seemed less – hostile wasn’t the word, but it was close – since his return, but he didn’t think a hug was on the cards just yet.

Elliot sat up and wrapped his arms around him, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder. George tucked his head into his neck and allowed himself to breathe for a few moments. The last week had been gruelling enough without knowing about the Vunipolas’ sabotage. Now everything was piling up as he realised just how much danger he had really been in. No wonder Owen had wanted to go and find him.

He jumped at Jamie’s hand on his back, slowly rubbing up and down as if comforting a child. He was safe here, he reminded himself. Middlesex was home. He could relax, sleep in his own bed, and not worry about the unending ranks of Exeter troops he was riding towards.

If only Owen would come back, everything would be good again.

After a while, George was conscious of the light changing in the room. The sun was dipping below the buildings of the courtyard. He pulled back from Elliot’s arms. Maybe he had not overstayed his welcome, but a degree of propriety was still required.

“I will retire to my room,” he said softly, in answer to Elliot’s concerned face. “The wound still pains me somewhat.”  
“I will ask a servant to bring you some food, then, if you cannot join us for dinner,” Elliot responded. George could tell he knew what was really going on in his head. The way he was nestled into his husband’s side practically confirmed it.

“Thank you,” he said and turned to leave.  
“George?” Jamie blurted out, and he twisted in the doorway. “I’m glad you’re home. You are a man of integrity and you deserve to be recognised as such.”  
“Thank you,” George repeated, trying not to avoid eye contact. “It means a lot.”  
“See you in the morning,” Elliot murmured.

George wandered back through the corridors of the court, dragging his feet. He had to keep checking whether Ben and Jonny were traipsing after him, unused to the solace after so long as a trio. Eleven days, and nothing and everything had changed at the same time. The stone walls of the buildings, the chickens scratching around in the courtyard? Those were all the same. But the way the other nobles treated him was completely different.

Now his former solitary existence seemed like something to be pitied, not to be content with. He opened the door into his room. The first thing his eye caught on was the blasted stack of harvest documents, still lying haphazard on the desk. Would he still be relegated to those dreary tasks? Hopefully not. Would he still allow himself to be pushed aside by the rest of the court? Not if he could help it.

Nerves rose in his throat as his thoughts turned to Owen. They hadn’t talked in eleven days, but somehow his view of his husband had shifted in that time. He could now see that, by isolating himself, he was making Owen’s life more difficult too. He didn’t deserve that. Maybe it would not a dramatic transformation, but George hoped they could work together to improve their relationship.

That is – if he returned.

George slowly changed into his sleeping clothes, then climbed into bed. He liked to think he could smell Owen on the blankets, but in the week or so of his absence, any lingering remnant of his husband had been stripped away in the breeze.

A servant knocked on the door and left a plate of food on the chest just inside the room. George couldn’t bring himself to thank them, let alone actually eat the food.

He grabbed the other pillow and wrapped his arms around it. If he couldn’t have Owen, this was the next best thing. He pressed his face to the rough fabric, closed his eyes, and prayed. He prayed until he could no longer open his eyes, and then he prayed some more. The hooting of an owl was the last thing he heard before slipping into sleep.

George woke the next morning to a unseasonable chill. His arms were stiff from clinging to the pillow all night, and his shoulder had woken him up every time he tried to roll over in his sleep. He yawned and stretched as well as he could, then got up. Today could be the day of news, after all.

He sat by the window to eat. His appetite had returned, along with a helping of shame at his behaviour the previous evening, so he made his way stolidly through the cold dinner and warm breakfast. He kept shifting around, trying to find some position in which to sit comfortably. His legs still ached, and remaining still for more than about five minutes, it seemed, set off sharp, stabbing pains.

Resigned to the tightness of his muscles, he half-hobbled to the kitchens to return his dishes. Elliot was there, chatting with the cooks, and he hugged him easily. “Good morning,” Elliot said chirpily. “How did you sleep?”  
“Like a man who has been on horseback more often than not in the last week,” George said, Elliot’s friendliness outweighing his morning proclivity for terseness.

“That’s fair,” Elliot allowed with a grin. He bade farewell to the servants and left the room, tugging George along with him. Once they were out in the corridor, he lowered his voice, expression growing serious. “Have you heard anything from Owen yet?”

George pulled a face. How would he know anything that the whole court did not? And, more to the point – why would Owen only tell him something? He was a servant of the court first and foremost.

He sighed. “You know I haven’t. I want to know where he is just as much as you, I assure you, but there’s been nothing.”  
“Perhaps he’s returning and thought it unnecessary to send a messenger ahead because he will be back within the day,” Elliot said hopefully. They both knew that was far from usual procedure, however.

George forced himself to smile. “I need to talk to the ealdorman about my assignment, but I’ll see you for lunch?”  
“Oh, the _harvest records_.” Elliot rolled his eyes. “I always thought that was a ridiculous task for someone of your abilities – or anyone, really. I’m sure McCall has something better for you to do now.” George clasped the other man’s shoulder briefly in thanks and walked back to his room to collect the – as Elliot rightfully termed them – ridiculous documents.

The meeting with McCall went smoothly. The ealdorman acknowledged the potentially extraneous nature of the work and handed it off to one of the court functionaries with little fuss. There were a few more pleasantries, words of congratulation for him and commiseration for the whereabouts of his husband, and then he was free.

The promise of a new, more integral role in Middlesex’s activities going forward was still ringing in his ears as he emerged into the main courtyard. The earlier chill and the attendant mist had dissipated, leaving only bright sunshine and birdsong.

George crossed to the stableyard, musing over how he was to fill his time until McCall devised his new occupation. There was no way in hell that he was going for the usual afternoon ride that day – both he and Alban deserved at least a week of recuperation. That didn’t stop him wanting to see his horse, however.

The grooms seemed to have learned to leave him alone, hovering in the doorway of the building where the tack was kept and watching as he let himself into Alban’s stall. “Hello, boy,” he murmured, running his hands along the horse’s neck and down his flanks. “It’s good to see you.” George laughed as the horse nosed at his shoulder, nickering in disappointment as he was firmly pushed away by his master. “Not there,” he chided, “that bit hurts.”

He sat cross-legged on the floor of the stable for a long while, watching the sky outside and listening to the low noises of a yard at work around him. Alban occasionally mouthed at his hair, but otherwise he was left alone, still and in silence. It was peaceful – a good way to relax after the tension and adrenaline of the mission to Bath.

(Not that it had ended up being a mission _to_ Bath – more of a mission _via_ Bath.)

He was contemplating going to find Elliot for lunch when a horse and rider skidded into the yard. “It’s Lord Owen!” the rider shouted, clearly willing to tell everyone who was around to listen.

George shot to his feet, muttered a quick apology to Alban for startling him, and ran out to the man. “What is it?” he asked desperately, grabbing hold of the horse’s reins. “What is the news?”

The rider wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. “He is returning,” he said with a broad smile. “I passed him not three miles away. At the speed he was travelling, he should arrive within half an hour.”

“Did he look well?” George asked, before catching himself. “I mean – thank you for your efforts, sir.”  
“Not a problem, my lord,” the man chuckled. “I understand your concern. Both he and the horse were moving well, although the knight accompanying him seemed to be struggling with the pace somewhat.”

“In this heat, I’m not surprised,” George said lightly. Relief was washing over him in waves. Owen was returning, unhurt, inside the hour. But, somewhere in the depths, nervousness was lurking. How should he act? What was he supposed to say? His feelings towards Owen had changed while he was away, but what if his husband had moved in the opposite direction? What if he had realised that he truly was better off without George?

Thanking the man once more, he hurried off to share the news. McCall was quietly pleased; Jamie murmured a prayer of thanks. Elliot let out a whoop of excitement and grabbed him round the waist. “Thank God,” he said brightly. “Aren’t you excited?”  
George shrugged. “I mean, I am… But what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Elliot scoffed. “Mate, you should have seen him when you’d left. He could not focus on anything, and the _hours_ he spent in the stableyard looking out at the road – honestly, it was sickening.”  
George smiled tentatively, tightening his arms around his friend. “If you say so.” He disentangled himself. “I must tell Ben and Jonny too, wherever they are, but I will return to the yard as soon as possible.”  
“See you there,” Elliot said with a salute, jogging away from him.

Walking faster now, George arrived in the knights’ quarters. He had not seen his two companions since the day before in the great hall, but they could not be back in training already. He ducked his head in the door, relieved to see the two men resting on their bunks.

“George?” Ben asked, sitting up with a wince. “Is it-?”  
“In the next half an hour,” George said. His legs were shaking more now than when he was waiting for his audience with the king, although the butterflies in his stomach were more of excitement than fear.

Jonny hauled the other knight to his feet, pulling a groan from his mouth. “I’m glad this one kept his mouth shut while we were on the road,” he said to George, rolling his eyes. “He doesn’t want to move his legs, but he hasn’t stopped talking all day.”  
“That’s Ben,” George replied with an exaggerated sigh. “A burden we must all bear.”

Hearing Ben’s indignant squawk, he turned round and went to the stableyard; the knights were hot on his heels. The yard was busier than he ever remembered seeing it, with McCall, a menagerie of near-identical advisors, and Elliot and Jamie waiting by the gate. They were pressed up against the fence like they were ready for some kind of travelling performance to start.

George slipped into line next to Elliot, making the other nobles move up to make space for Ben and Jonny. There was a momentary pang in his heart that he had not received the same reception – but then nobody had known that his arrival was imminent, he reminded himself. Elliot and Jamie had been perfectly enthusiastic when he had made his presence known to them.

The low murmur of the crowd was interrupted by one of the grooms shouting, “There! Just coming round the bend in the road!” Everyone instinctively pushed forward, and George squinted. He could make out two figures on horseback, half-obscured by the dust clouds thrown up by the horses’ hooves. One of the horses did look to be black, to be sure, but it was a common colour.

George’s hands were tense, clenched on the fence in front of him. It had to be Owen – had to be. He just – he wanted to see his husband again, of course, and to reassure himself that he was well, but why did it have to happen with such an audience. It wasn’t too late to feign exhaustion and retreat to his rooms.

He looked behind him. He was hemmed in at all sides, meaning the only way out would be to climb through the rails of the fence – putting him in full view of everybody. He closed his eyes quickly and prayed that he would not be humiliated before the court. Owen was almost home – he could afford to be a little selfish with his prayers.

When he opened his eyes again, the horses were only a few hundred feet away. Now it was possible, for the first time in days, for him to lay eyes on his husband. Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, he gazed at the tall, blond figure. He seemed bowed with tiredness, but – as the man had promised earlier – otherwise healthy.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Owen and his knightly companion were trotting into the stableyard, a matter of a few steps from George and the rest of the anticipatory crowd. He jumped off Aaron, landing neatly, and handed the horse’s reins to one of the grooms who were always hanging around.

George saw how he was scanning the crowd, and he fought the urge to shrink back behind Elliot. Their eyes locked. Then – Owen was coming towards him, almost running, and gathering him up in a vicelike hug, not caring about the fencepost digging into their stomachs.

“ _George_ ,” he breathed. “I was so worried.” George couldn’t bring himself to answer, his throat suddenly constricted. He settled for tightening his grip on Owen’s waist for a second before pushing him away a fraction. He looked up, seeing his husband’s face drop.  
“No – it’s not – it’s not you,” he tried to explain. “I was shot – an arrow, in the shoulder. I’m fine, but it hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Owen murmured, cupping George’s face in his hands. “I never meant to hurt you.” Somehow, they both knew he was talking about so much more than the hug.  
“I’m sorry too,” George whispered, drinking in the love evident in his husband’s eyes. “These last few days – I missed you, so much.”

“I love you,” they said at the same time. When they closed the gap between them with a kiss, it was like they had never been parted. If this had been their first kiss on their wedding day, George would have known that the marriage would be a success. Now, though – he was too focused on running his hands through Owen’s hair, over his back and his arms, to have any such thoughts.

Finally, Owen drew back, smiling beatifically at him. “I will do better,” he vowed, keeping their hands clasped together.  
“Me too,” George promised, unable to match the intensity of his husband’s words or the strength of emotion in his gaze.

The noise around them began to filter through and George flushed. Most of these people probably hadn’t known who he was a fortnight ago, and now he was making a spectacle of himself in front of the entire court. Owen kissed his hand gently and murmured, “I must speak with McCall – I will be back in a minute.” He walked away, leaving George in a daze.

“Did that really happen?” he asked Elliot, shaking his head.  
“What did I tell you?” Elliot beamed. “He’s so in love with you.”  
“It’s adorable,” Ben chimed in, making George jump. He and Jonny were looking at him fondly, and he wriggled away when Ben tried to ruffle his hair.

His friends had barely finished cooing when Owen returned. George let himself be tugged into his husband’s chest, suppressing his wince for the sake of the warm solidness he was resting on. “Thank you for keeping him safe,” he heard Owen rumble above him.

“Not a problem, my lord,” Jonny said seriously. “It was an honour.”  
Ben harrumphed and George was glad he could hide his grin in Owen’s arms. “He didn’t make it easy,” he said, hurriedly tacking on a ‘my lord’ for propriety’s sake. “Ran off in the middle of the night to go and talk to the king – we were bricking it when we found out!”

Owen tipped George’s chin up with a finger to see his face. “I heard about King Edward’s intervention, but I never thought…” He kissed George’s forehead lightly. “That’s incredible. You must tell me all about it.”  
George didn’t bother trying to hide his smile. “Only if you tell me what you’ve been up to the last few days. We’ve heard absolutely nothing.”

“Well, McCall wants me to do a quick debrief over lunch, but I’m all yours after that,” Owen said, tightening his grip briefly.  
“I can’t wait,” George said. He dared to lean up and press a kiss to his husband’s cheek – something he hadn’t done since that ride in the forest weeks ago, and not for a long time before that.

Elliot interrupted their content gazing at each other. “George will be eating with Jamie and I in our quarters, so you can find him there when you have finished with the ealdorman.”  
Owen nodded obediently. “I will see you soon, my love,” he murmured into George’s ear. He kissed him soundly and pulled away, keeping their hands touching for as long as possible.

George squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his face. He could hear Elliot, Jamie, and the knights talking over the top of his head. Just – _my love_. Owen had called him that a thousand times before, but it was different now. It felt like he really meant it.

“Come on, lovebird.” Ben poked him in the side. “Me and Jonny are having lunch with you lot too, and I’m hungry. Let’s go.” The crowd was breaking up around them, going back to their usual duties now the excitement of Owen’s return had faded. George followed behind his friends, going via the kitchens to pick up some food before heading to Jamie and Elliot’s rooms.

The two noblemen settled on the bed, Elliot leaning into his husband’s side, while Jonny positioned himself against the wall. George watched in confusion as Elliot stifled a yelp at Ben sitting on the desk. Jamie looked strangely smug, he realised, but all thoughts of Owen pushed it from his mind.

The conversation flowed over him like a rock in a stream. The food was good – it always was, and especially so after subsisting off cold bread and meat for a week – but he could barely taste it now. It was like his whole body was alert to Owen’s presence nearby. Not in a bad way, like he had been ready for attack at any moment on the road, but in a more positive way. He was yearning for his husband, physically drawn to him.

At long last, someone knocked on the door. George shot to his feet, the last remnants of the pie forgotten. Elliot and Ben were smirking; Jonny and Jamie merely looked approving. “George?” Owen asked, sticking his head around the door. Maybe George was projecting, but Owen’s eyes seemed to soften as they met with his own. “Are you finished?”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, shoving his plate at Ben to keep him quiet. “Let’s go.” He reached for Owen’s hand and followed him from the room, choosing to ignore the chatter that broke out as the door fell shut behind them.

“I really missed you, love,” Owen said quietly, holding open the door to their rooms. “I spent all the time you were away being worried about you, not knowing if you were safe. It made me realise how inconsiderate I was towards you.”

George patted the bed beside him and Owen gratefully sat next to him, entwining their hands once more. He didn’t think he could look at him during this conversation. “I thought I was being a good husband,” Owen continued, “because I was trying to involve you in things – at least at first. But over time, I assumed you wanted to be left alone, and I never asked, so I basically abandoned you.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

George rested his head on Owen’s shoulder. “I understand,” he whispered. “I was scared of coming to this new court, and I knew you resented me – at least at first, don’t lie,” he said, over Owen’s protest. “You wanted to marry my brother because it was a better match, and I understand that. I wanted to give you space, and I was scared, and – I don’t really know why I behaved like that, at the end of the day.”

He twisted to face Owen, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “All I know is – the last few weeks, I’ve realised how much you mean to me. I love you, and I want to be better for you. I want us to be better, together.”  
“Me too,” Owen echoed. “I won’t say that we should forget the past, but I want to learn from it. I love you, Georgie.” The tears in his husband’s eyes made George’s own spill over.

Somehow they ended up lying on the bed, George’s head resting on Owen’s chest and Owen playing with his hair. “Will you tell me what happened while you were away?” George asked softly, luxuriating in the stillness and warmth surrounding them.

“It’s nothing like as interesting as what McCall says happened to you,” Owen said, shifting slightly under him. “We only travelled as far as the London Irish settlement when word reached us that the king had intervened. There was no real need for us to stay, but there was no mention of you in the reports. I assumed it would have been passed on if something bad had happened, but I wasn’t willing to go back to Middlesex, just in case.”

He sighed. “Then, after four days, we decided to come back here – and Aaron pulled up lame. We had to wait another two days for him to recover, and then we returned.” He laughed, a strange edge to it. “The only good thing to come of the whole journey is that Patrick absolutely adores me, so Middlesex has an eternal ally in the London Irish now.”

“I’m happy you were thinking of me,” George said, snuggling in closer. “I know that my worry over the last day must have been nothing compared to what you had, so I’m sorry for that.”  
“We’re both here now,” Owen said. “That’s all that matters. Now, will you tell me about your travels? McCall gave me the short version, but I can’t imagine you or the knights told him the whole story.”

George nestled into Owen’s warmth once more, revelling in the simple comfort of the moment, and began to talk. He talked about the meeting with Patrick, the hours on the road, the sun and the rain, the arrow, the final realisation that he would have to ride alone to Worcester, and fainting in front of the king.

Owen’s arms had tightened around him even at the sanitised description of how Ben had removed the arrow, and they’d stayed there for the rest of George’s speech. His throat was dry by the end of it, not having talked for so long for an age. His husband’s body pressed up against him and the security of his arms was enough to keep him comfortable, however.

At some point they must have slipped into sleep, curled up together on their bed as the shadows grew longer around them. George jolted awake at a knock on the door. “Who is it?” he called blearily as he sat up, stroking Owen’s cheek as his husband blinked himself awake too.  
“Ealdorman McCall requests your presence in the great hall,” a voice replied, presumably belonging to a servant.  
“Five minutes,” George replied, and kissed his husband’s smiling face.

“What was that about?” Owen yawned between kisses. He tried to tug George back down next to him, but George shook his head.  
“McCall wants us – for dinner, I assume,” he said, glancing out of the window. “Best to get up.” Owen groaned and rolled off the bed onto his feet.

George smiled to himself. He hadn’t seen this side of his husband before – he had always been gone when George woke up. “Come on, dear,” he said, straightening Owen’s collar before taking his hand to lead him from the room. “We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

George was eternally grateful he’d taken the moment to smarten them up when he eased open the door to the hall. Dinner with the ealdorman usually encompassed the court nobility and any visitors of sufficiently high status, but this – this was a gathering on a scale he had not seen almost since he was a child.

The long table had been pushed to one end of the hall to make space for another two of similar size – where they had been kept, George could not imagine. The three tables were covered in extravagant dishes and what looked like the whole court and more were sat around them. “They are the heads of the local villages,” Owen murmured in his ear, slipping a comforting arm around his waist. “They were coming anyway, so McCall decided to invite them to the feast as well. The more, the merrier.”

“But why are we having a feast? The court has barely recovered from the last time we held one,” George asked quietly, conscious that conversation was ebbing away as more and more people noticed them standing the doorway.  
“It’s to celebrate the aversion of the war with Exeter,” Owen said in the same low tone. “Your return – and mine too, obviously, but mostly yours. McCall’s got a speech about you prepared, so be warned.”

George grimaced. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me?”  
“We wanted it to be a surprise,” Owen shrugged. “Now, come on, everyone’s waiting.” Reluctantly, George allowed himself to be pulled to the high table. Owen was in his customary seat to the ealdorman’s right, and George was next to him. Jamie and Elliot were across from them, as was tradition, but more unusual was Ben’s grinning face and Jonny’s apprehensive look next to them.

“Surprise!” Ben whispered as McCall rose to say grace. George shot him a look before they all bowed their heads.  
“For the safety of our court and the lords George and Owen, and for what we are about to receive, may God make us truly grateful,” the ealdorman intoned. The answering _amen_ rumbled around the hall as McCall retook his seat and everyone began to load up their plates, cutlery clinking and chatter breaking out.

Looking around him, George did not have to be made grateful. A feast, held in his honour, with his husband and friends around him, the whole court eating in common? It was all he’d wished for and more in those long, lonely mornings and afternoons and evenings through the previous two years.

Seeing the look on his husband’s face, Owen pressed their legs together under the table. “I love you,” he said quietly, under the hubbub of the hundreds of others in the hall. “I’m so proud of you, and you are worth every piece of praise you’re going to receive – today and always.”

With a lump in his throat stoppering up his words, George leaned forward and kissed his husband. It was so much, all at once. He could stay in that moment forever, surrounded by Owen’s embrace and all his closest friends.

Middlesex – there was no place he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented on this work! It means a lot, and I hope this final chapter was worth it - I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you liked reading it as much.


End file.
